Part 15

“Skeeter, I don’t hanker to wish no bad luck onto myse’f, but, please, suh, look an’ see do de book say anything about a wheel? I seed a wheel in my sleep las’ night.”

“Here ’tis,” Skeeter replied promptly. “Down close to de eend of de list. ‘Wheel--Is om-i-nous of evil.’”

“Dar now, Prince, you done got yourn,” Hitch Diamond bellowed.

“I knowed it wus somepin bad,” Prince remarked in a weak voice. “Nothin’ good don’t never happen to a nigger!”

Skeeter Butts dropped the book upon the ground, and it fell open with the laughing face of the gray-haired negro exposed to the view of the men sitting around him.

“Dat Swampo wus in cahoots wid de debbil, fellers,” Hitch remarked in a low tone, as he pointed to the picture. “He wus always potterin’ aroun’ wid buzzards an’ sich like. He teached me a song ’bout de turkey-buzzard when I wus jes’ a little shaver. It went like dis:”

“T-u tucky, t-u ti, T-u tucky-buzzud eye! T-u tucky, t-u ting, T-u tucky-buzzud wing!”

“Aw, hush, Hitch!” Vinegar Atts bawled, as the lugubrious, recitative whine of this song greeted their ears. “Whut you wanter start somepin like dat fer?”

“I wus jes’ tellin’ you!” Hitch rumbled defensively.

“You niggers know whut?” Pap Curtain exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine to de Little Moccasin Swamp an’ hide out till dis bad luck goes by.”

“Me, too,” Prince Total proclaimed. “I ain’t gwine meddle aroun’ de white folks wid dis hoodoo on me. I’ll shore git serious injury.”

“Us, too,” the other darkies announced promptly.

“Wait till I locks up de Hen-Scratch, niggers!” Skeeter Butts begged. “I ain’t gwine sell no mo’ booze dis day.”

“Less stay close togedder, niggers,” Vinegar Atts whined as they started down the dusty road toward the swamp. “Lemme walk in de exack middle of you-alls!”

* * * * *

The nearest edge of the Little Moccasin Swamp lay four miles from Tickfall. It was an oblong stretch of deep, black mud, and deeper and blacker water, measuring twelve miles the longest way, and six miles at its widest.

Except for one place, along the Little Moccasin ridge, it was traversable only by those who knew the swamp well, and had the instincts of a fox or wolf.

It was full of cypress trees and cypress knees, canebrake, and rank weeds, pestilential with disease, and inhabited by countless insects, bugs, worms, snakes, and animate things of that general nature which bit or stung or poisoned. It was the last place on earth which a white man would seek to escape bad luck.

The sun had set before the six negroes came to that point where the swamp came right up to the dusty parish road and ended in a fringe of weedy undergrowth. In the midsummer heat this undergrowth was ten feet high, making a thick curtain and from the rotting vegetation beneath there came an almost overpowering smell.

As the six negroes walked down the silent road, the darkness in the woods, increased by the interlocked branches of the trees, was intense and overwhelming. The green fringe of the swamp weeds took on fantastic shapes, and the negroes, through their disordered imaginations, beheld claws and wings, and leering eyes, and sneering mouths, and snarling teeth, and painted upon the black canvas of the dark were all the slimy, horrid forms which fear could conceive.

At last they came to the bridle path which branched from the parish road and followed the Little Moccasin ridge to the Dorfoche bayou.

Up to this point in their flight the negroes had traveled in a bunch, but the narrow path now required that they go in single file?

“Who is gwine take de lead?” Skeeter Butts asked.

“Not me,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “My ole maw tole me dat I wus borned under de sign of de goat, but I ain’t gwine butt head-fust inter dat swamp. My dream specify fear, trouble, an’ sorrer. I got a plenty now!”

“I ain’t gwine lead,” Figger Bush said positively. “Ef one of dem big swamp jack-rabbits like de one I dreamed ’bout wus to hop acrost my path, I’d straddle eve’y tree in dat swamp!”

“I don’t figger on headin’ de peerade,” Pap Curtain proclaimed. “I got a hunch dat I better take good keer of myse’f. My dream specify serious injury. It don’t take hardly nothin’ to hurt a nigger ef luck’s agin him.”

“I backs out, too,” Prince Total declared. “Dat path ain’t wide enough fer no wagin wheel, but I ain’t sayin’ dat a wheel _cain’t_ run on it!”

“I’s gwine fetch up de rear,” Hitch Diamond boomed in his deep bass. “Misforchine, great loss, an’ death is a plenty fer po’ Hitchey to tote along wid de crowd ’thout gittin’ ahead of de bunch wid his load.”

“Less build us a fire so we kin see!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s gittin’ de jig-jams standin’ here in de dark.”

“Us won’t need dis fire long,” Pap Curtain announced as he pointed to a yellow haze through the tree. “De full moon is comin’ up!”

“Bless Gawd fer dat!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Us needs two moons!”

When their fire was lighted, Skeeter Butts sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree which lay beside the road, and said:

“Fellers, dis book is shore handed me a wad of trouble an’ sorrer. It specify dat I is powerful bad an’ oughter git reformed befo’ I dies an’ goes to hell; it argufy dat secret enemies is trailin’ along atter me; an’ it orate dat chi-mer-i-cal plans is tryin’ to engage wid me!”

“Whut kind of plans is dem?” Vinegar Atts asked.

“I dunno, Revun,” Skeeter said miserably. “It ’pears to me like a preacher oughter know somepin ’bout dat. Whut does you figger it am?”

“Well, suh,” Vinegar announced, after a period of deep cogitation, “of co’se I would had to scuffle consid’able to git de real signify of dat long word ’thout no book of commontaters to read up on; but mos’ gin’ly speakin’, I argufies dat dem kind of plans is invenjums of de debbil.”

“How does you know?” Skeeter asked uneasily.

“I argufies dis way,” Vinegar declared, boring with his right middle finger into the palm of his left hand to emphasize his remarks: “Ef you is gwine die an’ go to hell ’thout reformin’ yo’ badness, of co’se yo’ secret enemies am de debbil an’ his angels, an’ dem plans you spoke ’bout is a kind of infernum machine like a cuttin’-box. I bet you git bofe yo behime legs chopped off befo’ to-morrer mawnin’.”

“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed pitiably. “I’s powerful glad dar’s a full moon to-night. She’ll git up over dem trees in a little while. I needs mo’ light!”

In the light of the fire, Skeeter brought out his dream book, and gazed at the red cover design.

“Ain’t dar no good dreams in dat book, Skeeter?” Figger Bush asked.

“Yes, suh, dis book is full of ’em,” Skeeter answered.

“Read us some, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain begged. “Ef we knows whut dey is, mebbe us kin dream ’em an’ bust de hoodoo.”

“Here is de fust one I sees,” Skeeter replied as he began to read laboriously: “‘Lion--To see one denotes admittunce to de sawciety of dis-tin-guish-ed pussons. To sit or ride on de back of a lion denotes de pro-tec-tion of some powerful pussonage. To dream of eatin’ de flesh of a lion denotes some high of-fice----”

“Aw, shuckin’s!” Prince Total exclaimed. “A nigger never could dream ’bout no lion. Us might dream ’bout a lizard.”

“You better not, Prince,” Skeeter warned him. “Listen to dis: ‘Lizard--Misfortune through false an’ de-ceit-ful friends.’”

“Fer de Lawd’s sake, Skeeter,” Vinegar howled impatiently. “Look over dat book an’ see ain’t dar no way to bust a bad hoodoo dream-sign!”

The pages of the dream book rustled for ten minutes while the negroes sat in expectant silence. At last Skeeter squealed:

“I done foun’ a new page, niggers! It’s all ’bout signs an’ omens. It say dis: ‘How-ever skep-ti-cal some pussons pro-fess to be on de subjeck of signs which ad-mon-ish an’ forewarn----’”

“Aw, cut dat out!” Hitch Diamond growled. “Us b’lieves in ’em--read de signs!”

Thus admonished, Skeeter began:

“‘Ef yo’ lef’ eye-brow be visited wid a tantalizin’ itchin’, be as-sured dat you are goin’ to look upon a painful sight--de corp’ of a valued frien’.”

Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet, while every negro gazed upon him with fearsome curiosity, at the same time, unconsciously reaching up and scratching their left eyebrows!

“Ef you niggers ain’t got no real objections, I’ll git out from under dis tree,” Hitch said in pitiful tones. “Dis tree is been here ’bout a millyum years, an’ I ’speck it’s gittin’ ready to fall over.”

“Dat’d shore wuck a bad accidunt on me,” Figger remarked as he moved to the middle of the road.

“Let Skeeter read some mo’ signs!” Prince Total howled as he walked out and squatted in the middle of the road like a frog. “Mebbe us kin find somepin dat’ll bust Hitch’s luck.”

“‘When you are af-fec-ted by itchin’ on de spine of yo’ back,’” Skeeter read, “‘be assured dat yo’se’f or some one near-ly re-lat-ed to you is about to suffer a violent death!’”

“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bawled.

There was silence for a quarter of an hour, while fear gripped the hearts of the negroes with iron fingers and squeezed out all hope, as we crush the water from a sponge.

Vinegar Atts was breathing like the exhaust of a steam engine.

“Revun Atts,” Skeeter said in a weak, frightened voice, “I feels powerful bad, an’ I was thinkin’ dat I’d like to hear a few advices of de Bible preached an’ a little religium singin’.”

“I cain’t he’p you now, Brudder,” Vinegar panted. “Wait till I git my breath back. How kin I bawl out wid de message when I’s all wind-broke like dis?”

Skeeter waited a few minutes, then turned to his dreadful dream book and began to read, mumbling to himself.

Suddenly Skeeter raised his head with a jerk and gazed up at the moon. He sprang to his feet and began to count on his fingers. The others watched him with intense curiosity. Finally he howled:

“He’p me, niggers; he’p me quick! Whut day of de mont’ is dis?”

“Dis is de twenty-six’!” Vinegar panted. “De day of de full moon.”

“When did de new moon come in?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“De new moon wus de tenth!” Pap Curtain informed him.

“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter howled, his voice breaking into a sob.

He squatted down and held the book close to the fire, reading aloud to himself in a low tone.

“How many days is passed since de new moon, brudders?” Skeeter inquired in a trembling voice.

“Sixteen!” Vinegar replied, after making the count.

“Us all had our dreams las’ night, didn’t we?” Skeeter squealed.

“Yes, suh,” the chorus answered.

“Lawdymussy, niggers, _we is saved_!” Skeeter screamed, waving his dream book about his head. “I done found a new page in dis book!”

“Whut do she say?” the chorus screamed.

“Listen to dis!” Skeeter panted: “‘Jedgments drawn from de moon’s age: Dreams on de fifteenth day atter de new moon _will not come to pass_; whatever bizzness a pusson undertakes dis day will prosper. De sixteenth day differs very little from de pre-ced-in’; but any undertakin’ on dis day will come to a foolish end.’”

“Bless Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine trust de Lawd an’ mosey back to Tickfall!”

“Hol’ on, niggers!” Skeeter squealed, as the others also sprang up.

Skeeter stooped over the fire and laid his little volume on the interpretation of dreams upon the hot ashes.

“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”

The Gift of Power

Vinegar Atts was in trouble.

He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket. Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.

After a long silence Vinegar said mournfully:

“I cogitate dat they done deeprive me of my goat, Skeeter.”

“Yes, sur; dat’s so, suh. It ’pears to me dat you is fightin’ it out wid yo’se’f fer de las’ place in de race.”

Vinegar Atts sighed. He picked up his pipe from the ground, filled it with strong perique tobacco, lighted it, then let the bowl drop off of the stem, scattering the ashes over his lap and spilling the tobacco. Not noticing the accident, Vinegar sucked vigorously on the stem, and gave himself up to gloomy meditations.

“I been de pasture of de Shoofly church fer twenty year hand-runnin’, Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked at last. “I begged de loose change outen de pockets of de white folks to build dat church. I wus de fust preacher an’ de onlies’ preacher dey is ever had dar. An’ now dey is gwine gib me de farewell go-by.”

“Dat new nigger preacher shore is makin’ a bull-eye hit wid de members,” Skeeter remarked. “You see, de members of de Shoofly church is done got acquainted wid yo’ ways. Dey done listened to dem same sermonts fer de las’ twenty year----”

“Dey listen but dey don’t heed,” Vinegar Atts interrupted disgustedly.

“Shorely. Dat’s de way mos’ church members is,” Skeeter replied. “But, you see, dis new preacher he comes in wid a new loud voice----”

“You gimme a good dram an’ two sour lemons an’ I kin beller louder dan any yuther preacher in de worl’,” Vinegar Atts declared.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter replied propitiatingly. “But dese Tickfall niggers is done got intimate wid yo’ bawl an’ it don’t sot heavy on deir minds no more. Dey figger dat dey needs a change of tone.”

“Dey shore is treated me jes’ like a feetball,” Vinegar mourned. “Kicked me aroun’ scandalous!”

“Is de cormittee fired you yit?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.

“Naw!” Vinegar exploded. “Ef dey fires me, I’ll punch de stuffin’ outen deir hides. But I ’spose dey is gittin’ ready to send me my resign.”

“Dat’s powerful bad,” Skeeter sighed. “I stuck to you like a frien’ because you is always been one of my bes’ silent customers. I talked for you awful hard, an’ holped you all I could. I’s sorry dat dey drapped you down.”

“Dat new preacher worked a buzzo on me,” Vinegar lamented. “He fotch up in dis town while I wus oozin’ along in de Shongaloo woods, an’ had all de cormittee pregaged befo’ I got back. Fust news I knowed he had done hogged all de hominy. He hadn’t oughter did me dat way.”

“He shore did ack familious wid anodder man’s job,” Skeeter agreed. “But whut made de mostes’ hit wus his looks: he’s got a new suit of clothes, an’ gold eye-specks, an’ a ruben ring. He waves a silk handkercher, totes a teethbrush an’ wears pink socks.”

“All dem things is jes’ like de curl in a pig’s tail,” Vinegar Atts proclaimed. “Dey is ornamental, but dey don’t make no more pig!”

“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter grinned. “But a pig whut ain’t got no ornamint twist in his tail a-tall is suttinly pure scrub!”

Vinegar stooped and recovered the bowl of his pipe, refilled it and began to smoke furiously. Skeeter fiddled with a brass wrist-watch which he wore with prideful ostentation. A hound dog lying upon the saloon steps scratched himself with such a noisy and monotonous knocking of his elbow against the boards that Vinegar roused himself and hurled maledictions and pine knots at him.

Then Skeeter asked:

“When is de cormittee gwine hold its las’ meetin’?”

“To-morrer night in my orfice in de Shoofly church,” Vinegar told him. “I figger dat’ll be de las’ time I’ll ever set by dat table. Of co’se, de cormittee will vote agin me an’ de church will vote wid de cormittee.”

“Whut is you gwine do fer a livin’?” Skeeter asked with interest.

“I done got me a job as Marse Tom Gaitskill’s butler,” Vinegar said. “Hitch Diamond, he used to buttle fer Marse Tom, but de kunnel specify dat Hitch couldn’t show no hon’able scars whar he hurt hisself wuckin’, so he fired him. I got Hitch’s job.”

“Dat wus good luck fer you,” Skeeter said in a delighted tone.

“Naw, suh, ’twas bad luck,” Vinegar said mournfully. “You see, Hitch is a member of dat church cormittee, an’ he’s gwine vote agin me because I picked up de job whut he drapped.”

“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed. “You is like a snake whut’s got his tail in his mouf--jes’ spinnin’ aroun’ yo’se’f in a circuous ring!”

Vinegar picked up his hat and stood up.

“I got to mosey up to Marse Tom’s, Skeeter,” he said. “De kunnel is gwine hab big comp’ny tonight. I’s much obleeged fer yo’ pity in my many troubles.”

“Pick up a brave heart, Vinegar,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Mebbe de good Lawd will pervide.”

“I ain’t so certain ’bout dat, Skeeter,” Vinegar replied gloomily, as he walked out of the yard. “It looks to me mighty like Proverdunce is done busted a dynamite cap under my shirt!”

* * * * *

Four men sat around the table in the Gaitskill dining-room. The covers had been removed, and they were devoting themselves to an evening of boyish frolic. Everything went.

There was Colonel Tom Gaitskill, an ideal host, courtly, genial, whose fountains of humor never went dry, making him eternally young. Near him sat the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, eloquent, scholarly, whose fine face, seamed and wrinkled with suffering, was written all over with the literature of experience. Across the table was John Flournoy, the sheriff whose reputation exceeded the boundaries of the State, a man with a giant’s form and strength, a woman’s tenderness, and the courage of a host of jungle beasts.

And the guest of honor for the evening was Gaitskill’s life-long friend, Captain Lemuel Manse, a retired millionaire, who had received his title from the fact that he was owner of that beautiful sea-going yacht, whose keel had cut the waters of every sea upon the globe, and which had brought to Tickfall the never-to-be-forgotten Diada.

For four hours Vinegar Atts had served them in that dining-room, silent, watchful, with some mysterious instinct foreseeing the minutest need of every guest and meeting it before the guest himself was conscious what his need was.

The talk had become reminiscent.

“Say, Lem,” Colonel Gaitskill remarked, “do you remember how we used to scare the everlasting gizzards out of the niggers on the plantation by holding spiritualistic séances in their cabins?”

“Will I ever forget it?” Captain Manse laughed. “The darkies used to run when they saw me coming!”

“I wonder if you have forgotten how to make the table dance?” Gaitskill asked.

Captain Manse promptly pushed back his chair.

Vinegar Atts had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew instinctively that the table should be cleared. His long arms reached over the shoulders of the men and the liquors and the cigars were placed upon the sideboard.

With fun sparkling in his magnetic eyes, Manse arose and began the repetition of a stunt which had amused him half a century before.

“Gentlemen,” he began, in a sing-song voice, imitating the manner of the professional mediums, “there is an even number of us present, which makes a perfect spiritualistic ring. I presume you will smile and chuckle and fling unholy jests at the wonderful miracles which I perform, but I shall most certainly convince you of my close communion with the spirits of the unseen world. You might doubt a professional test, but this is an amateur séance. Here is no hidden machinery. Here are no paid confederates. You are my best friends, and why should I try to fool you? We are all sincere and open to conviction, and any results which are obtained must surely be authentic.”

This address concluded amid laughter and applause.

The four men drew up to the heavy mahogany table and placed their hands upon its polished top, palms down.

“My friends,” Captain Manse said in a husky whisper, “you will all keep silent, please. You will notice that it looks impossible for any person to move this heavy table by merely placing the hands upon it. No strength can be put into the open palms, it is impracticable to pull or lift or push from the elbows. The legs or feet cannot be brought into use, for they are not allowed to touch the board. And yet the table will move! Silence, gentlemen! If a spirit is present, he will give us a message through the table!”

Several long minutes slowly passed. No sound was audible except the steady, deep breathing of the four men sitting at the table.

As for Vinegar Atts, respiration had ceased some minutes before.

Suddenly, after the long strain of tense silence, Dr. Sentelle, the semi-invalid, took a deep breath--a sigh--and the heavy table rose slowly, teeteringly, under his delicate, fragile, blue-veined hands!

“Ah, some spirit has come at last,” Captain Manse exclaimed in a deep, sepulchral, sing-song undertone.

Again there was total silence, and the strain of waiting, and the sweating palms of the men outspread upon the table; Sheriff Flournoy took a long, deep breath.

Again the table tipped, bumped against the floor, and settled down!

“Dr. Sentelle,” Captain Manse spoke in a tone hushed and full of awe, “the spirit of my long-lost dead poll-parrot will answer any question which you desire to ask!”

Dr. Sentelle sighed audibly.

He raised his eyes toward the ceiling and in a low, thrilling, beautiful voice, he asked:

“Are you happy, Polly-parrot, since you became a bird of paradise?”

Instantly, the heavy table struck the floor three times--bump! bump! bump! “Y-e-s.”

There was a whoop of laughter and the men sprang to their feet.

“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed with a chuckle. “If some of the experiences Lem and I had when we were young were wiped out of my memory, I wouldn’t know my soul in eternity.”

“That’s right,” Captain Manse laughed. “I recall one Christmas day when Tom’s niggers were eating in the kitchen, Tom and I went in there and made that table dance all over the place and scared the darkies so they wouldn’t touch a bite of that Christmas dinner. Of course, we had to fake that stunt. In fact, most of this spiritualistic stuff is faked now.”

“How is it done?” Flournoy asked.

Captain Manse explained several of the methods by which the table-tipping fakes deceived the credulous public, then the talk drifted into national politics.

In a moment Gaitskill looked up with surprise. Did not Vinegar Atts know that the theme of politics called for liquors and cigars?

Vinegar Atts stood beside the door as motionless as a Chinese idol, and his black face, expressive of meditation, mystification, fright and awe, made him almost as ugly as an idol.

But the colonel’s look galvanized him into action, and he was once more the silent, well-oiled, efficient machine of service.

“Let’s move out on the gallery, gentlemen,” Gaitskill suggested after a while. “We’ll find it cooler there.”

As the men passed out, Gaitskill lingered a moment and said:

“That’s all, Vinegar. You are dismissed for the evening.”

Vinegar Atts pulled the doors of the dining-room together, waited a moment until he was sure the men had settled themselves upon the gallery, and then he did a very unusual thing.

Seating himself at the mahogany table in the chair which Captain Manse had occupied, he spread his immense black hands palm-downward upon its shiny surface and with a perfect imitation of Manse’s manner, sat there for five minutes, in ludicrous, pop-eyed expectation, waiting for something to happen!

He looked up at the ceiling, and down to the table. He pushed on the table-top with all his strength. He drew in a breath which seemed to consume all the air in the room, and emitted a sigh like the exhaust of a blast furnace--but all to no avail.

“It cain’t be did widout plenty practice,” he assured himself. “But I ain’t got nothin’ to do all de rest of dis night but kotch on how to make her jigger!”