Part 16

He went out to his cabin in the rear of the Gaitskill yard and sat down beside a cheap pine table.

When morning dawned he was still sitting there, puffing and blowing, his sweating palms pressed downward upon the table’s rough surface, his credulity unshaken despite his failure, waiting for something to happen!

“Lawd,” he sighed. “She ain’t even wagged her tail fer me all night long!”

* * * * *

Vinegar Atts spent the day in various activities, some of them of a personal nature, and some under the direction of Colonel Gaitskill.

When evening came he was free, and started on a gloomy walk to the office of the Shoofly church, where the Committee on Pulpit Supply was to hold its last session and determine whether Vinegar should retain the pulpit which he had occupied for twenty years, or surrender his prophet’s mantle to another.

Sitting around a cheap pine table in the middle of the room, Vinegar found Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush and Skeeter Butts. Of the four, Skeeter was now his only friend.

At the end of the table sat the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe, a tall, black, thin-faced, ladder-headed negro, whose clothes were so loud that they proclaimed the man a block and a half away. He bore himself with an air of triumph, and gazed upon Vinegar Atts with a look of mingled pity and contempt.

Vinegar was also dressed in the loudest manner his purse would afford, but the showiest things about him were his extraordinarily large and immaculately white shirt cuffs. His manner was meek and apologetic, utterly unnatural to Vinegar, who had been accustomed for twenty years to butt and bellow like a bull of Bashan among the sheep in the Shoofly fold.

“De meetin’ will come to orders an’ de sec’tary will specify de bizzness of de las’ session,” Pap Curtain, the chairman, announced importantly.

“Us didn’t do nothin’ but gass,” Figger Bush answered promptly. “De Revun Vinegar Atts had done made hisse’f abasent, an’ us didn’t take no action on de Revun Tucky Sipe gittin’ de job. Us took a mebbe-so vote, an’ all of us favored Tucky Sipe, excusin’ Skeeter Butts.”

Figger sat down, and Vinegar Atts moved his chair to the table and seated himself close beside the secretary.

“De bizzness of dis meetin’ am to choose a preacher fer de Shoofly church,” Pap Curtain announced. “Ef anybody is got any speeches on deir mind, let ’em squall out!”

Hitch Diamond arose and cleared his throat.

“Brudders, I feels dat us needs a change. We is done had a fat, squat-leg preacher fer twenty year, an’ now dis here spindlin’-shank is come applyin’ fer de job, an’ I favors him. He knows how to wear clothes, he’s got a good-soundin’ whoop to his religium advices, an’ knows how to tag on de ’rousements when he ’postolizes.”

“I feels de same motion, brudders,” Figger Bush put in when Hitch had taken his seat. “Vinegar gibs us good advices, but it ’pears like he cain’t make us take ’em. I heerd de Revun Tucky Sipe las’ Sunday, an’ he gib us cautions jes’ like he had done had a session wid de gram-jury. I ain’t much mo’ dan a seat-member of dis church, but I likes de skinny parsons best.”

“I got de same notions in my head, too, brudders,” Pap Curtain declared, as Figger sat down. “I is shore dat Tucky Sipe won’t slanderize nobody, an’ won’t snoop aroun’ huntin’ fer somebody’s sins to preach again an’ git often de subjeck dat way. He jes’ preaches de true word. I votes hearty fer Tucky Sipe!”

There was a moment of silent expectation, and all eyes were turned toward Skeeter Butts. Skeeter wiggled and clawed at his head, but did not offer to speak. At last, Vinegar Atts said in a husky voice:

“Skeeter, will you please git me a drink of water outen de well. I feels powerful dry in my innards. Dar’s a pint tin cup out dar by de water-buckit.”

There was another silence until Skeeter returned with the cup. Vinegar drained the contents at one gulp, then turned the cup upside down and set it in the middle of the table.

“Would you wish to relieve yo’ mind, Skeeter?” Pap Curtain asked.

“Naw, suh,” Skeeter said in an embarrassed tone. “You’all knows dat I favors de Revun Vinegar Atts. Him an’ me is good frien’s, an’ he ain’t never did me no harm. I favors keepin’ him wid us, but of co’se, I gotter bow down when de vote stan’s three to one.”

During Skeeter’s speech, Vinegar Atts sat beside the table, his hands spread out, palms downward, upon the top.

Suddenly the table began to move! It slid slowly forward, then slipped backward, then tipped up on one end!

“Stop shoving dis table aroun’!” Pap Curtain exclaimed.

Vinegar Atts moved his chair back so that all could see his feet and his knees. Then the table slowly lifted a few inches, and fell with a sliding motion, hitting Pap Curtain a jolt in the stomach, and almost upsetting the smoky oil lamp which occupied the center of the table.

“Hey, dar!” the Reverend Tucky Sipe exclaimed, as he grabbed at the tottering lamp. “Whut ails dat table to make it cut up dat way?”

Vinegar Atts emitted a deep, audible sigh, and his eyes were fixed upon the ceiling in a look of abstracted reverence and devotion.

An awed silence fell upon the men, and Skeeter Butts ostentatiously moved his chair close to the open door. If anything happened, Skeeter intended to lead the getaway.

The heat of the night was intense and overwhelming. Above their heads countless mosquitoes, attracted by the light, circled ceaselessly with an annoying whine of wings. Far away came the rumble of a summer thunderstorm. From a pine tree in the graveyard the voice of a screech-owl quavered like the cry of a child lost in the darkness.

Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe promptly arose and turned the side pockets of his pantaloons wrong side out--a sure cure for screech-owls!

The men moved back from the table and stared at it with popping eyeballs. Vinegar sat beside it alone, his palms outspread upon its rough surface.

A loud sigh came from Vinegar’s throat.

The table slowly rose, teetered for a breathless moment, then fell to the floor with a loud bump. The lamp chimney tottered and fell upon the table, smashing into tiny fragments.

The negroes sprang to their feet in terror--all except Vinegar Atts. He remained with his hands upon the table, sitting as if in a trance.

The lamp wick flared, filling the room with smoke. After a moment Vinegar adjusted the wick, setting the lamp in the center of the table, moving the pint cup to one side as he did so.

Then he moved his chair back from the table and seated himself beside Skeeter Butts at the door.

For a short time no word was spoken. Then the men began to recover their nerve, and Pap Curtain resumed the discussion of their business:

“I figger dat enough has done been said, brudders,” he declared. “De lamp chimney is done busted an’ us ain’t gwine hab no light on dis subjeck very much longer. I motions dat--My Gawd, _whut is dat_?”

This last question was a scream, as Pap pointed with trembling fingers at the pint tin cup. It was moving slowly across the table!

The men watched its erratic movements with breathless fascination. It moved forward toward the edge, then backward toward the center of the table; then it moved slowly in a circle, and finally took a straight line and toppled off the edge of the table onto the floor!

Every negro jumped about two feet into the air, and bolted into the yard with a loud whoop.

Vinegar Atts alone retained his seat by the door and seemed to be unconscious of what was happening. They looked at him in wonder, not speaking a word.

After a while Vinegar stood up, opened the door which entered into the church auditorium, and returned with a new lamp chimney. Wiping it out carefully with a soiled bandanna handkerchief, he adjusted it upon the lamp, and said in a cordial voice:

“Come in, brudders! Us is done had excitements, but dis meetin’ ain’t bust up yit!”

The darkies timidly re-entered the room and sat down on the edge of their chairs ready for flight upon the least provocation.

After giving them time to recover their composure, Vinegar said:

“Brudder Chairman, I figger dat it would be doin’ de high perlite ef you axed fer a speech from de preacher whut is done served dis communion to de best of his ability fer twenty year.”

“Dat’s right, Elder!” Pap Curtain said heartily. “Us ’ll shore be glad to hear yo’ cormitmints!”

Vinegar hesitated a moment, then spoke impressively:

“Brudders, I believes dat a preacher oughter hab some things besides good clothes, spindlin’ shanks, a ’rousement voice an’ a appertite fer good grub. Does you’all believe dat?”

No one answered the question, but after a pause Pap Curtain inquired:

“Whut else do he oughter hab?”

“He oughter hab de gift of power!” Vinegar roared in a mighty voice. “Does you’all believe dat?”

“Sho’ly!” the men murmured.

“Now, brudders,” Vinegar went on, “I built dis here church wid my own hands; I begged de money from de white folks to buy de timber whut went in it; I sawed de wood whut made de pulpit an’ de benches, an’ eve’y block of wood in dis church knows my hands an’ obeys my voice. I got de gift of power!”

He paused. The men looked at the pine table with shifty, frightened eyes.

“When I puts my wide open hand on a piece of furniture in dis church, it gits up an’ rambles!” Vinegar bellowed. “De spirits of de onseen worl’ tells dem furniture to git up an’ hustle! Kin de Revun Tucky Chew Sipe say de same as me?”

Tucky Sipe stared at Atts with the expression of a glass-eyed doll; he fingered a mangy rabbit foot in his left hip pocket; he licked his parched lips with a dry tongue; but he offered no reply.

“When I puts my hands down on dis table, I got de gift of power to make her move!” Vinegar bawled. “Even de tin cups goes ramblin’ aroun’ when dey hears my hawn!”

He glared around him, his hands clenched, his powerful neck bent, his head lowered as if about to butt--giving a ludicrous imitation of an angry bull getting ready to make a charge. He walked over to where Tucky Chew Sipe was sitting, and shook an impressive finger before that gentleman’s long nose:

“I gib you fair warnin’ right now, Tucky Chew Sipe, dat de very fust sermont whut you preaches in dis church will be yo’ last--I’ll walk up to de side of dis church and put my hands agin de outside wall, an’ move dis whole house plum over to de State of Arkansas!”

Vinegar turned, shut the door of exit from the building, locked it and put the key in his pocket. Then he sat down beside the table and spread his hands palm-downward on the top.

He seemed to sink into a trance, his eyes rolled back, his alligator mouth came open, his breath came and went with a loud wheeze, and at intervals a low moan issued from his throat.

The minutes passed. The men watched Vinegar with ever-increasing horror. Tucky Chew Sipe stood up and flattened himself against the wall, his knees shaking until they threatened any moment to collapse and let him down in a heap upon the floor.

Vinegar moaned. A long, deep sigh whistled through the tense silence, and the table rose two feet from the floor, teetering uncertainly. Vinegar rose to his feet, and followed the table in its peregrinations around the room, his hands spread wide and resting upon the top.

“My Gawd!” Tucky Sipe exclaimed.

Instantly the table went high into the air and shot out toward Tucky Sipe, crashing against the wall, striking Tucky a mighty blow in his lean and hungry stomach, extinguishing the lamp and hurling it to the floor where it broke into a thousand pieces!

Instantly Vinegar Atts struck a match and held it up to illumine the darkness.

He glared a moment at the horrified negroes, then walked over to where the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe lay flat on the floor in a hysteria of fear, whooping like a siren in a fog.

“Shut up, brudder, shut up!” Vinegar howled. “You done mourned a plenty. Trust de Lawd!”

The match went out and Vinegar struck another.

“Now, honey,” Vinegar said to the frightened Sipe, “ef you wants dis church, you kin hab it--but my advices to you is to hunt somewhar fer to git, an’ trabbel out to’des dat place right now!”

“Yes, suh,” Tucky Chew Sipe said in a voice which strangled in his throat. “I takes yo’ advices. I’s like dat ole Bill Shazzer in de Bible--I done observe de handwrite on de wall!”

The burning match scorched Vinegar’s fingers and he tossed it aside, sucking the blister as he unlocked and opened the door. Then he spoke in the darkness:

“De log-train passes through Tickfall in about ten minutes, brudder. Skeeter Butts will go to de deppo wid you an’ speed you on yo’ way. You won’t make me mad ef you never comes back!”

* * * * *

One hour later Vinegar Atts and Skeeter Butts met in the rear room of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“De revun made his git-off, Elder,” Skeeter grinned. “He specify dat he reternally regretted dat he wouldn’t git no more free vittles from de dearly beloved sisteren, but he ’peared powerful anxious to trabel jes’ de same.”

“Well, I reckin ef dar ain’t no likely cand’date fer my preachin’ job, de cormittee will let me hold on to it, won’t dey?” Vinegar asked.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey say you is done bewitched dat church an’ dey is gwine let you keep it till you die.”

“Dat’s de bes’ news I’s heerd sence de las’ pay day,” Vinegar exulted. “I shore do like to bawl de message in dat communion. It he’ps me git a lot of wind offen my breast.”

Vinegar took out a soiled handkerchief and mopped the copious sweat from his beaming face.

“Lawd,” he sighed in delighted tones. “Ain’t it hot!”

“Lay off dat long-tail prancin’-albert coat, Revun,” Skeeter said irritably. “You oughter run yo’se’f through a wringer befo’ you wear dem clothes--dey makes you too moistuous--you’s spoutin’ water like a whale right now!”

Vinegar sprang up gladly and pulled off his coat.

Then he glanced at his wrists in shocked surprise, and began to put on his coat again with all possible haste.

But sharp-eyed Skeeter Butts was too quick for him. He sprang up, seized the coat, and wrenched it away.

“Hol’ on, Vinegar!” he barked. “Whut you doin’ wid all dat harness on yo’ wrists?”

Vinegar pulled back his big white cuffs and sheepishly displayed the “harness.”

Around each wrist a large leather strap was securely bound, and from each strap, projecting toward Vinegar’s fingers was a powerful iron hook with a sharp point!

“Whut in de name of mud is dat fer?” Skeeter howled.

Vinegar grinned, sat down at a little pine table in the middle of the room, spread his open hands upon the table, palms downward, just as he had done at the Shoofly church.

The two iron hooks fitted securely under the edge of the table, and were effectually concealed by his white cuffs. With the grip and the leverage thus secured, the gorilla arms and iron wrists of Vinegar Atts could have lifted a bale of cotton.

Vinegar quietly picked up the little table and grinning like a big fat monkey, pranced all around the room before the astounded, admiring eyes of Skeeter Butts.

Skeeter sat down and chuckled with delight.

“Vinegar,” he said, “I always figgered dat a preacher wus a nachel-bawn fool or he wouldn’t be a preacher. But atter dis I is gwine hand a tin prize to you fer brains!”

Vinegar could see no particular advantage in confessing that Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Captain Lemuel Manse had spent the entire morning of that day manufacturing Vinegar’s harness, and rehearsing him in the sensational stunt which he had pulled off at the Shoofly church.

“You won’t make no great big mistake ef you gib me two tin prizes fer brains,” Vinegar remarked complacently.

Skeeter clawed at his close-cropped head a moment, then asked another question:

“Elder, how did you make dat tin cup prance all over de top of dat table?”

Vinegar’s mouth was filled with chewing tobacco and his soul with peace. He ruminated a minute, grinning at the little barkeeper. When Skeeter began to show signs of impatience, Vinegar answered:

“I put a tree-frog under dat cup,” he said.

Owner of Doodle-bug

Sugar Sibley, the dusky belle of the Tickfall Parish Fair, sat in the Jim Crow section of the grand stand, clothed in all the colors of the rainbow, posing with all the indolence and insolence of an African princess, lavishing her charms upon the yellow-faced barkeeper of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Whut hoss we gwine bet on next, Skeeter?” she inquired.

“Dunno,” Skeeter answered anxiously. “I hopes it’ll be a winner.”

Skeeter removed his hat and rubbed a nervous hand over a closely cropped head, down the middle of which a part had been made with a razor.

His face was seamed with fine lines of worry, and the nervous sweat pouring down his face had wilted his high, white collar to a soiled and crumpled rag.

“I don’t like a nigger whut parts his wool in de middle,” Sugar announced, eyeing Skeeter’s head, with disapproving looks. “Ef a hoss eats in my trough, his mane is all got to lay on one side.”

Skeeter hastily put on his hat.

The band struck up the lively tune of _Rastus, Why Don’t You Pay de Rent_?

“Dar now!” Sugar exclaimed. “One dem hosses in dat nex’ race is named Rastus. You go bet ten dollars on Rastus, Skeeter! An’ fotch me back some loose change. You ain’t winned me nothin’ dis whole day.”

“I ain’t got but ten bucks lef’ over,” Skeeter confessed. “Ef Rastus don’t win, I’s shore a busted cornstitution!”

“Whut’s dat?” Sugar demanded sharply. “You mean to signify dat you ain’t fotch but one hundred dollars out here wid you to entertain a cullud lady?”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter declared, “an’ I done loss it all but dis here tenner.”

“You’s gwine lose a lady frien’, nigger,” Sugar remarked in a disgusted tone. “Nothin’ don’t talk aroun’ me but dollars.”

“My talkin’ dollars is done expe’unce a vocal breakdown,” Skeeter answered shamefacedly.

A tall, yellow negro with a furtive manner, a baboon face, eyes too close together, and lips which carried an habitual sneer, passed them, walked down to the rail, and stopped to gaze up and down the track.

“Does you know dat man?” Sugar Sibley asked.

“Dat’s Pap Curtain,” Skeeter informed her. “He’s de meanes’ slick-head nigger in Tickfall.”

Then Skeeter left her, walked down to Pap, and said:

“Pap, is you got any money?”

“Shore!” Pap informed him, patting four capacious pockets bulging with silver coins.

“Cain’t you loant me a few loose change?” Skeeter pleaded.

“Naw, son,” Pap replied positively. “Whenever I loants money to a frien’ I axes dat money an’ dat frien’ good-by. I ain’t never gwine see ary one no mo’.”

“I sho’ am on de list fer he’p,” Skeeter mourned. “I’s armin’ a she-queen aroun’ an’ she done et up all my money an’ bawlin’ fer mo’ an’ I’s skeart she’ll pass me down because I’s busted.”

“Dat’s too bad,” Pap sympathized. “You had oughter picked de winners.”

“Is you winned all dat money wid bets?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“Naw, suh!” Pap made emphatic answer. “I don’t bet on nothin’. I sells tips! I charges one half dollar fer eve’y tip per each.”

Skeeter produced his last bill and handed it to Pap.

“Give me nine dollars and fifty cents change. Pap,” he said eagerly, “an’ a tip on de winner of de nex’ race.”

Pap handed back the change, caught Skeeter by the arm, led him to one side out of ear-shot of all other negroes, and whispered impressively:

“Swa’r befo’ Gawd dat you won’t tell nobody whar you got dis tip!”

“I prommus!” Skeeter murmured.

Pap bent down, cupped both hands around Skeeter’s ear like a trumpet, and whispered hoarsely:

“Rastus!”

Skeeter’s little legs bounced him down the steps of the grand stand and for the next ten minutes he circulated assiduously among the negroes placing his private bets.

When Skeeter had gone Pap Curtain turned his back to the track and gazed upward in worshipful adoration of Sugar Sibley as if she were the saint of his deepest devotion. The gaudy princess opened wide her large eyes, then squinted them, then slowly closed one eye and smiled.

Pap promptly pranced up the steps and seated himself in the place vacated by Skeeter Butts. He did not act like a stranger, nor as if he regarded an introduction necessary.

“Howdy, Sugar?” he remarked. “I argufies dat yo’ name fits you’ corporosity like a candy jaw-breaker fits a pickaninny’s mouf.”

“You ain’t entirely wrong, Popper,” the lady grinned. “I’s shore a sweet cake to de coon whut’s got de dough to mix wid de sugar.”

“Skeeter Butts jes’ now specify to me dat he’s nearly out of mixin’s,” Pap muttered, fumbling at his own silver-laden pockets.

“All right, Popper,” Sugar announced complacently. “Me an’ you will let dat Mr. Muskeeter fly up de creek.”

“Ef he won’t fly away us’ll screen him off,” Pap snickered.

Their conversation was brought to an abrupt close by a loud whoop from the spectators. Five horses were loping around the track--loping leisurely in spite of the fact that their frenzied jockeys were using whip and spur at every jump. But the racing game was new to these humble plough-horses, and their idea seemed to be that if they reached the wire before the sun set the day’s work would be done.

But the jockey on Rastus found a tender place on his mount’s tick-bitten flank and managed to provoke a spurt of speed which put Rastus two lengths ahead and kept him there. Rastus won!

* * * * *

Flushed with his triumph and rattling his money, Skeeter Butts came to where Pap and Sugar were seated, tossed five dollars in Sugar’s lap, and glared at Curtain.

“Git outen my seat, Pap!” he commanded. “You’s tryin’ to deeprive me of my gal!”

“Naw, suh,” Pap answered promptly. “I ain’t intend no depravity. Besides, I gotter go. ’Bout fawty niggers wants to cornverse me ’bout dis nex’ race.”

“Whut hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar Sibley asked when Pap had gone.

“I dunno,” Butts replied, promptly regretting that he had not been more gracious to Pap Curtain. “Which way did Pap went?”

“Whut you want wid dat ole man?” Sugar asked suspiciously.

“Pap is sellin’ tips,” Skeeter explained. “He teched me off ’bout Rastus winnin’ dat las’ race atter he made me prommus I wouldn’t tell nobody.”

“I don’t b’lieve it,” Sugar snorted. “I picked Rastus myself when de band was playin’ dat tune. How do Popper Curtain know whut hoss is gwine win?”

“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “He’s a slick-head nigger an’ mebbe he’s got a conjure.”

“Ef Popper knowed whut hoss wus gwine win, he wouldn’t sell no tips,” Sugar sniffed. “He’d bet!”

“Mebbe dat’s so!” Skeeter agreed, his confidence shaken by this argument. “But ef you’s so good at pickin’ de winner, s’pose you name de nex’ one?”

Sugar glanced at a large blackboard under the starter’s stand where a red-headed boy was chalking the names of three more horses.

“_Doodle-Bug!_” she exclaimed eagerly. “Bet on Doodle, Skeeter!”

Butts walked away, but before he placed a single bet he trailed Pap Curtain until he found him, placed a half-dollar in Pap’s willing palm, and demanded the name of the winner.

Again Pap cupped his hands around Skeeter’s ears and whispered:

“Doodle-Bug!”

Skeeter took a big breath. Then he got busy. First he found his friend, Figger Bush.

“Figger,” he panted, “loant me ten dollars. Ef I never pays it back yo’ credick is good at de Hen-Scratch till you drinks dat much liquor up.”

Figger counted out the money, and Skeeter raced around until he had borrowed a similar sum from Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, an Mustard Prophet, thus increasing his supply of money until he had fifty-five dollars. Then he raced around some more, betting every dollar on Doodle-Bug.

Walking back to the grand stand, he found Pap Curtain engaged in a lively conversation with Sugar Sibley. Jealousy boiled in Skeeter’s heart and his saddle-colored face flushed to a brownish crimson. He strode to where they were sitting and began: