Part 20

She wore the proverbial bridal veil, wore it loosely, sloppily, resembling a wet dishrag thrown over the top of a post. Her bridal dress was popped open in the back where the buttons had burst, the lace at the bottom of her skirt had been torn by her walk to the church through the weeds.

That dress had evidently been, at one time, some young lady’s evening gown, and the glossy black of Lalla’s bare shoulders and arms in the glare of the noonday sun was not only startling--it was shocking. Short white kid gloves covered the damsel’s hands, which she kept folded in maidenly modesty across her breast.

Hitch held her by the arm with the air of a policeman conducting a prisoner to the lock-up, and when he surrendered her to Sour Sudds, Sour grabbed her elbow in the same official and authoritative manner.

“Dear-ly be-lub-bed!” Vinegar Atts bawled in a voice which could be heard a mile, and whining his words with a peculiar, sing-song intonation which no other people on earth can imitate:

“Dear-ly be-lub-bed, we am gathered togedder in de sight of Gawd an’ de ’socheation of dese witness to hitch togedder dis here man an’ dis here woman in de holy bonduce of mattermony, which am a powerful good thing but ain’t by nobody to be tuck up wid sudden-like, but atter prayerful study on de wharfore an’ de outcome. Ef ary one of you niggers knows a good cause why not dey should be married, bawl out right now, or forever--hol’--yo’--peace!”

Skeeter Butts moved uneasily, opened his mouth to speak, then muttered in a low tone:

“I s’pose dis is all a play-like, but it shore looks nachelly like de plum’ real thing to me!”

After an impressive pause, Vinegar continued, addressing his remarks to the principals:

“Ef ary one of you two niggers knows any jus’ an’ lawful an’ resomble cause whyfo’ you shouldn’t git married bawl it out right now, or else forever--hereinafter--hencefo’th--hol’--yo’--peace!”

No impediment being alleged, Vinegar Atts glared at Sour Sudds and howled:

“Sour, is you gwine take dis woman to be yo’ reg’lar cotehouse wife; is you gwine buy her vittles, chop her stove wood, pack her water, tote her washings to an’ fro from de white folks’ house, an’ excusin’ all yuther female womans, hang only onto her, so long as you bofe lives, so--he’p--you--Gawd, hope you may die?”

“I is!” Sour Sudds replied.

“Laller, is you gwine take dis man to be you’ reg’lar cotehouse husbunt; is you gwine cook his grub, patch his britches, clean up atter him, keep him in chawin’ terbaccer, an’ excusin’ all yuther men’s take in washin’ only fer him, an’ stick only to him so long as you bofe lives togedder, so--he’p--you--Gawd?”

“I’m are!” Lalla snickered.

“J’ine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar bellowed. “Let us pray!”

There was a moment’s silence, then, in a tone which throbbed with indignation and rebuke, Atts said to Sour and Lalla:

“You two niggers shet yo’ eyes! You got to shet yo’ eyes to pray!”

“De Good Book say, ‘Watch an’ pray,’” Sour protested.

Vinegar glowered at them until they shut their eyes; having satisfied himself that they would observe the proprieties during his petition, he howled:

“Oh, Lawdymussy! Pity dese here two people whut is done united deir lives an’ deir forchines. Don’t let ’em got no deevo’ce, even if dey wants it _bad_! An’ I shore hopes dar won’t be no quollin’ or fussin’ or fightin’. Amen!”

“O Lord!” Peter Pellet whispered in imitation of Vinegar, as he slowly turned the crank of the camera. He spoke only loud enough for Rouke to hear: “O Lord, deliver me henceforth and forever from such a film hog as this big fat slob of a preacher!”

“March over an’ sign de obscribe!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, waving his hand toward the little writing table. “Yes make yo’ mark, niggers! I’ll tell de clerk whose marks dey am, an’ he’ll write down de names!”

When the last scribe had straightened up from the table and laid down the pen Sour Sudds snatched up the license, walked over and waved it in the face of Lalla Cordona, and in a voice which rang with triumph he exclaimed:

“Now, you slick little nigger gal! I fit an’ bled an’ died fer you at de fish camp yistiddy, an’ you throwed me down flat--but I got you jes’ de same! Dis paper is a real, reg’lar license from de cotehouse, Vinegar Atts is done said de words, de obscribe is done been signed, an’ dat picture man is got a tintype of de whole weddin’! I got you! You is my lawful cotehouse wife!”

With a low, gurgling cry which ended in a scream, Lalla Cordona staggered backward, tottered as if about to fall, stumbled with pain-stricken face toward the two men standing by the clicking camera, then covered her face with her hands and sank, sobbing, to the ground.

There was a moment of intense silence while the surprising trick sank into the dull minds of the negroes.

Then Skeeter Butts screamed like a maniac and hurled himself at Sour Sudds. The two men went down under the mighty impact, and Sour dropped the license from his hand. When they arose, Sour was struggling for his life to wrest an automatic pistol from the hands of Skeeter, while the little barkeeper, absolutely insane with fury, was fighting murderously to free the weapon and to kill.

In the midst of the struggle the hand of one of the fighters touched the trigger while the weapon was poised in the air. There were ten shots and the dangerous gun was empty!

Screaming with baffled rage, Skeeter gouged and fought and bit, but Sour was cooler and stronger, and slowly forced Skeeter back, until he had him pressed against the little writing table. In a moment Skeeter’s back would have been broken.

“Hey, dar!” Hitch Diamond bawled. “Let dat little coon alone!”

The whole mass of negroes made a forward movement toward Sudds, and the darky saw that they would tear him to pieces. Releasing Skeeter, he jumped to one side, sought for some place of flight, then ran into the Shoofly church.

With a howl like a wolf-pack the mob rushed into the church after him.

Shirley Rouke seized his extra camera, ran behind the church and set it in position just as the mob came pouring out of the rear door.

Sour was aiming for the deep woods in the rear of the church, but as he started for them he confronted Skeeter with his automatic pistol. Sour had no means of knowing whether Skeeter had reloaded his gun, so he ducked and started at full speed around the church with the mob in hot pursuit.

He dived into the church through the front door again, leaped out of a side window and started for the woods. But the mob split into two parts in the church, some of them going out of the rear door and some out of the front, and they met half-way around the Shoofly church with Sour Sudds in the middle.

Struggling, panting, fighting, finally screaming for help, Sour plunged and kicked and bit and scratched, working his way around to the front of the church again.

And there stood Lalla Cordona, her shapely hands clutched across her heaving bosom, watching the fray.

“He’p, Laller, fer Gawd’s sake! Dey’ll kill me!” Sour shrieked, with arms outstretched toward her.

It was his last word.

He went down in the whirlpool of spinning arms and legs while the mob snarled like wild hogs and tore at his prostrate body.

The sight sickened the girl and she turned away with face agonized, horror-stricken. Then the wretched negro’s prayerful plea for help galvanized her into action.

By the side of the church there was a piece of scantling about the size and length of a baseball bat. Lalla picked it up and waded into that mob like an Amazon.

Biff! the scantling struck a head and the owner of the head ceased operations and sank heavily to the ground. Biff! Biff! Biff! Like Father Time with his scythe, Lalla mowed the men down, or made such a deep impression on their minds that they were glad to retire.

At last she worked her way down to where poor Sour Sudds lay. But he did not lie there very long. Recalling his duplicity and deceit with reference to the marriage ceremony, and appalled at the dexterity with which Lalla handled her club, he rose from that spot, broke the world record for a hundred yard dash, and disappeared in the woods, still running.

Tickfall saw him no more.

Lalla turned, walked across the grass to where the marriage license lay upon the ground and picked it up.

She glanced at it, laughed, then carried it up close to the camera and held it so Rouke and Pellet could see it, and the all-seeing eye of the clicking machine might record it on the film.

It was a legal document issued by the City of New Orleans, Parish of Orleans, State of Louisiana.

It was signed and sealed by John Flournoy, Sheriff of Tickfall Parish, and an incorrigible practical joker.

It was a Dog License!

VI

“CUT!”

Three days later, Peter Pellet entered the Tickfall bank and found Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Sheriff John Flournoy sitting beside a desk smoking and chatting.

“Good!” Peter exclaimed. “I am sent to find both of you gentlemen. Mr. Shirley Rouke invites you down to the theater to watch a try-out of our new picture. It’s local stuff, you know, and he wants home criticism.”

“We’ll come!” Gaitskill exclaimed.

Sitting within the little theater, the two men witnessed upon the screen one of the rarest exhibitions in the world of the skill and ingenuity of a motion picture director and producer--an exhibition which caused the Gitagraft Company to make an amazing increase in Shirley Rouke’s salary and which caused the world to add an astounding laudation to his already great fame as an artist.

The picture was perfect in plot and execution, full of love, fighting, tragedy, humor, and the two great scenes were the episodes we have described at the fish camp and the wedding at the Shoofly church.

Through the picture there ran rare scenes of the Louisiana jungle with the bear and deer in their native haunts, the wild hogs of the Gaitskill hog-camp, the deep, still forests with their wide, cool lanes, the sluggish bayous winding amid rank vegetation.

Two characters moved through the story, holding the thread of the plot--Lalla Cordona and Sour Sudds, and their acting was perfect.

When the picture ended, the men were voluble in their expressions of approbation.

Mr. Shirley Rouke walked over and shook hands with Colonel Tom Gaitskill.

“Colonel,” he said earnestly, “if it had not been for your help I could never have gotten that picture. I thank you ten thousand times. Your suggestion that I take the picture without the negroes knowing it by having some one in the know to lead ’em in their stunts was the real, right dope! By George! Pete and I stalked those darkies through the swamp just like we stalked the wild animals in the African jungle. We followed them everywhere!”

“I don’t know one of those niggers in the picture,” Sheriff Flournoy said. “Who is the bridegroom in the fake wedding?”

“He’s the only good negro movie actor in the world!” Rouke informed him. “We employ him in our studio in New Orleans. He’s gone back home now.”

“What bothers me,” Gaitskill said, “is that bride in the wedding ceremony, who takes the lead in the whole picture. That woman is not a nigger!”

“Well, _I guess not_!” Rouke exclaimed. “She’s a Spanish Moor. She’s the highest salaried movie actress in the Gitagraft Company and has acted in our pictures all around the world. In the North she was an Esquimau, in Montana she was an Indian princess, in Tokio she was a Geisha girl, in Hong-kong she was the emperor’s daughter, and in our South Sea Island picture she took a seventy-foot dive off of a mountain crag into the ocean. She can speak every language on earth, or if she can’t she can fake it until a native would not know the diff----”

This dissertation was suddenly interrupted by a rich, sweet-toned, dramatic voice, speaking the technical word which in the moving picture world instructs the camera artist to stop action:

“Cut!”

The man whirled around and looked into the smiling face of Lalla Cordona.

She had slipped into the theater unobserved to witness the first try-out of the new picture.

She arose from her seat and advanced toward the men with all the grace and beauty of the Arabian princess that she was, garbed gloriously in the latest creations of Fifth Avenue modistes and milliners, a thing of dainty, exquisite, infatuating beauty and loveliness whose dark skin was as fine as spun silk, as delicate as cobweb, as glowing as polished ebony, and whose whole body flamed with the soul, the magnetism, the life of her.

As Rouke spoke her name introducing Colonel Gaitskill, she said:

“I beg everybody’s pardon for my rude interruption. But it’s deadly boresome to hear your own funeral encomium, don’t you think?”

“I judge from the general tenor of Mr. Rouke’s remarks that anything you do is perfectly all right,” Gaitskill laughed. Then he asked: “Where have you been stopping while in Tickfall, Miss Cordona?”

“I suppose the sheriff will put me under arrest,” she answered with a throaty, chuckling laugh, “but I have been a cook in Mr. Flournoy’s home in the last five days. In the South a black face indicates a nigger, and I knew that my only door of entrance to a white man’s home was through the kitchen.”

“Oh, Lord,” Flournoy mourned, “I’ve lost the best cook in the whole world! Tom, I was going to invite you out for a meal to show her off----”

He was interrupted by the voice of a man sobbing. The cry seemed to rack and tear the throat as if Pain had picked up the heart in red hot pincers holding the quivering flesh until it dropped the thick, black blood of agony.

They turned and saw Skeeter Butts slip out of the door of the little theater.

He had followed Lalla Cordona down the street, had entered the little theater unobserved, and had heard enough to know that all the blossoms of love in his heart had fruited into Dead Sea apples filled with ash and soot.

“Gawd!” he sighed pitifully, as he dragged his leaden feet toward the Hen-Scratch saloon, “I wish I wus a white man ’stead of a coon!”

D.D.

“It cain’t be did, niggers,” Skeeter Butts announced in a tone of finality, as he lighted a new cigarette on the stub of the old one. “Dis here chu’ch is a busted onfinancial institootion.”

He leaned his hide-bottomed chair against the trunk of the chinaberry tree in the churchyard, tipped his derby hat forward until the brim was level with his eyes, and surveyed with disgust that dilapidated structure known as the Shoofly church.

“’Twon’t cost much,” the Rev. Vinegar Atts protested earnestly. “Dis chu’ch is been needin’ dem improvements fer a long time.”

“’Tain’t so,” Hitch Diamond growled. “You don’t need no ’lectric readin’ lamp to sot on yo’ pulpit. You kin read by de light over yo’ head.”

“You ain’t needin’ no fancy pulpit chair to sot on, either,” Skeeter Butts remarked.

“De springs is all busted outen de bottom of de one I’m got,” Vinegar complained. “When I sot down I feels like I’m settin’ in a bushel basket. My stomick is over on my knees an’ my foots is mighty nigh up to my chin. De price ain’t so powerful high--twenty dollars fer de settee an’ five fer de readin’ lamp. Dat don’t seem much to me.”

“Us’ll git you dem fancy decoorshuns fer Christmus, Brudder Atts,” Skeeter smiled. “Dis here is August----”

He stopped suddenly and peered down the road with great interest. A slim, black negro, dressy and citified, was picking his way along the dusty road toward the Shoofly church.

The three men adjusted their chairs so they could watch him as he came up the little hill. They noticed that he gazed down at the deep sand through gold-rimmed spectacles, that he picked places in the road which would not bury his shiny patent-leather shoes, that he exercised great care to protect his linen suit from flying particles of dust, and he carried a near-gold wrist-watch which he consulted frequently, as if he were bound to get up that hill on schedule time.

“I knows him,” Skeeter Butts whispered. “I met his ’quaintance at de deppo dis mawnin’. He blowed in wid a long-whisker white man whut is visitin’ de Revun Sentelle. Dis here new coon is callin’ hisse’f Green Trapps.”

Green sighed with relief when he reached the gate of the churchyard, and came across the lawn toward the three men with an ingratiating grin. Vinegar Atts kicked the chair on which his feet were resting toward the newcomer as an invitation to be seated.

“Mawnin’, Greenie,” Skeeter Butts greeted. “Us is been expectin’ you to look up some of yo’ own kin an’ color.”

He introduced Green to Vinegar and Hitch, passed him the cigarettes, and then waited for Green to open the conversation.

“You niggers ain’t pregaged in no bizziness discussion, I hopes,” Green remarked. “I don’t hanker to butt in.”

“’Tain’t no secret bizzness,” Skeeter replied. “Dis here Revun Atts craves a readin’ lamp an’ a pulpit chair fer his chu’ch, an’ us members don’t aspire to git him none.”

Thereupon for the enlightenment of Green Trapps, the three men repeated all the conversation and arguments which had occupied them for an hour before Green arrived. At the conclusion of the talk-fest, Skeeter Butts demanded:

“What does you think about it, Greenie?”

“I agrees wid you-all,” Green said promptly. “Vinegar needs dem great improvements, an’ de Shoofly cain’t affode to git ’em. Therefo’ you-all oughter turn yo’ minds to somepin mo’ important.”

He took off his gold spectacles, polished them carefully with a big silk handkerchief, then rubbed the shining face of his wrist-watch and finally flicked the corner of his handkerchief over his shiny shoes.

“I don’t know nothin’ more important,” Vinegar Atts grumbled in manifest disappointment.

“As de revun pastor of de Shoofly is you got a D.D. degree?” Green asked blandly.

“Got a--which?” Vinegar asked, showing the whites of his eyes.

“Is you ever took on a kawlidge-gate degree?” Green repeated.

“I done tuck ten degrees in de Nights of Darkness Lodge,” Vinegar replied. “I don’t need no mo’. De las’ one I tuck dey made me ballunce a raw egg on my bald head an’ a nigger hit it wid a paddle--ruint all my nice lodge clothes.”

“Aw, shuckins! I don’t mean dat,” Green snorted in disgust. “Ain’t you no Doctor of Dervinity? Don’t de white folks call you de Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts? Ain’t you no scholard like de Revun Dr. Sentelle an’ dem yuther white preachers?”

“Naw, suh,” Vinegar said regretfully. “Dis here pig ain’t got no curl to his tail like you mentions.”

“You had oughter git you a D.D.,” Green said with conviction.

“De Elder needs a couple of D’s,” Hitch Diamond rumbled, delighted with the idea.

“De Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts, D.D. of Dervinity, pasture of de Shoofly Mefdis Chu’ch, Tickfall, Loozanny,” Skeeter Butts vocalized, mouthing the words pompously. “Gosh! I’d gib a dollar to see de Elder dolled up like dat!”

“It’ll cost fifty dollars,” Green said quietly, looking at his wrist-watch as if he feared to miss an engagement. “I kin git one fer you fer dat many money.”

Vinegar’s face was glowing like a saint who had seen a heavenly vision.

“How come you is peddlin’ dem D.D.’s aroun’?” he asked.

“I travels wid de Revun Dr. Gilbo, pres’dent of de Silliway Female Institoot,” Green said easily. “Us come to town dis mawnin’ to intervoo some rich folks in dis town. Us don’t never run atter nobody’s money, but we makes it a p’int to go whar money is at, an’ we is powerful kind an’ high perlite to de fellers whut is got money.”

“Dat’s right,” Vinegar applauded.

“Now dis here Dr. Gilbo, he told me ef I could sell a couple of D.D.’s on dis trip to a couple deservin’ nigger peachers, he wouldn’t hab no objections. I got de papers wid me now.”

He reached into his breast pocket and brought forth a crackling sheet of parchment. The three Tickfall negroes had never seen a college diploma. Had they been able to read this one they might have been enlightened; but unfortunately for them it was written in Latin. Its mystery conferred upon it a vast importance.

Green Trapps indicated a blank space with his finger.

“All I’m got to do is to write yo’ name right dar, Revun,” he said. “Atter dat I collecks my money, passes dis here obscribe over to you, an’ de D.D. is did.”

“Sounds easy,” Vinegar said, his face aglow.

“Of co’se, niggers, dis here is white folks’ bizzness an’ us is got to speak it easy,” Green said as he rolled his parchment and replaced it in his coat pocket. “Dar ain’t many white kawlidges in dis worl’ whut D.D.’s niggers.”

He looked at his wrist-watch and rose to his feet.

“De Revun Dr. Gilbo takes two pills an’ a charcoal tablet at ’leben o’clock, niggers,” he announced. “I got to go wait on him.”

“Hol’ on, Greenie,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “Ef we wus ter be of a mind to bestow a D.D. on Vinegar, how soon could us git de goods?”

“Colleck yo’ money up by to-night, an’ us will bestow de paper befo’ de Shoofly cong’gation tomorrer night,” Green suggested as he turned and walked away from the conference.

When Green had gone the three sat for a long time in perfect silence. Vinegar was longing and hoping for that little scrap of parchment, wondering how he could attain it. Skeeter was wishing in an indifferent way that Vinegar had an honorary degree, but he was determining in his own mind that he would purchase a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles just like Green’s. At last Hitch Diamond spoke:

“Listen to dis idear, niggers: de Nights of Darkness Lodge meets to-night. I favors axin’ all de members of de lodge to cont’ibute a few change to make up de fifty dollars an’ buy Vinegar Atts a couple of D’s.”

“Dat’s de trick, Hitchie,” Skeeter shouted. “Of co’se, de lodge is secret work an’ de white folks won’t know nothin’ about it. Dat comes up to de rules dat Green laid down.”

“I think dat’s a good notion,” Hitch mumbled.

“I favors it,” Skeeter agreed.

“Amen,” said Vinegar Atts.

* * * * *

The session of the Nights of Darkness Lodge proceeded quietly until the question was asked: “Is there any new business?”

Thereupon Hitch Diamond, the grand exalted ruler, rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and spoke:

“Brudders, us cullud folks of Tickfall an’ especial de members of dis lodge b’lieves in showin’ high an’ exalted salutes to people whut deserves it. I rises to pernounce dat de time is now come to show a pertickler favor to our feller brudder member, Revun Vinegar Atts.”

Vinegar arose, bowed, and sat down.

“De high exalted chaplain of dis lodge ain’t as high as he might git, an’ I aims to ax you-alls to put him whar he b’longs. We wants a preacher we kin be proud of, an’ Vinegar Atts needs a couple of D.’s to finish him off complete. I moves dat we chip in an’ buy ’em fer him.”

“Thank ’e, suh,” Vinegar arose and said, and sat down.

Hitch’s speech was not as enlightening as it should have been, and it was met with complete silence. Each member was trying to think out what Hitch meant. After a while Skeeter Butts remarked:

“I favors buyin’ a D.D. fer Vinegar, an’ I now cont’ibutes one dollars to dat puppus.”

Skeeter walked over to the altar in the middle of the lodge floor and dropped a resounding dollar upon the top. The negroes looked at the dollar with great curiosity, but they needed more light before they were willing to add any money to that contribution. After another silence, Figger Bush asked:

“Whut is dat one silver dollar fer, Skeeter?”

“To he’p buy a D.D.,” Skeeter informed him.

“Whut am a D.D.?” Bush inquired.

“It’s a--a--a kawlidge piece of paper wid writin’ on it,” Skeeter explained lamely.

“How much do she cost?” Bush persisted.

“Fifty dollars,” Skeeter told him.

A murmur of protest ran around the room. No one had the remotest idea what Skeeter was talking about, but they could all grasp the significance of fifty dollars. It was apparent that they would not favor buying anything for Vinegar Atts which cost that much money.