Part 8

Loud yells from the Sawtown players greeted this remark, and a moment later the Sawtown pitcher delivered the ball. Possum bunted it toward the shortstop, and started for first base like a rabbit.

Skeeter Butts raised his hat with a most exaggerated bow.

Coco Ferret raised her veil.

Possum never reached first base.

He took one look at Coco’s face, gave utterance to a howl which would have frightened a European war general, and started for left field by way of the pitcher’s box, looking behind him and whining like a dog.

Just as the shortstop threw to first the Sawtown first-baseman got a look at Coco’s face.

“My gosh!” he whooped.

His arms dropped paralyzed to his sides, he received the baseball full in his stomach, and started after Possum at his best gait.

“My Gawd!” the Sawtown pitcher yelped; his glove fell from his hand, and he started away.

“Dat gal’s got some kind of ketchin’ disease!” the third-baseman squalled; and thereupon he and the second-baseman, the shortstop, and the catcher started after the pitcher in wild flight, looking behind them as if fearful that the object of their fright would pursue them.

Coco Ferret, lacking a woman’s best friend--a mirror--and having no idea of her horrific appearance, turned and grinned at the crowd of Tickfall negroes, delighted with her success as a hoodoo breaker.

“Oh--my--Lawd A’mighty!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, his eyes popping with fright, his mouth spread wide in horrified imbecility. “Whut is Gawd done gone an’ done to dat gal? Run, niggers, run!”

Vinegar’s hand was pointing Coco out to the crowd, but the girl at that moment was looking toward Skeeter Butts, grinning like a drunken nightmare.

The crowd paused just long enough to look.

What they saw was a girl who had been shiny-black two hours before--but now her face was white, with black rings around the eyes and mouth; a ghastly, horrible whiteness, poisonous-looking and appalling, enough to frighten any sane man into jimjams.

Vinegar Atts started toward Tickfall, bellowing like a cow.

Four hundred squalling blacks fell in behind him, fighting for room to run, grabbing at each other’s coat tails to accelerate their speed, taking frightened glances behind them every moment, then adding another octave to the vocalization of their fright.

Out on the highroad they kicked up the dust and sand like a cyclone, but the dust-cloud did not obscure the light-blue dress of Coco Ferret as she trotted down the road behind them.

Skeeter Butts trotted behind Coco, cackling like a hen.

“Keep it up, honey!” he squawked. “You shore is a grand little hoodoo sign buster! Chase ’em plum’ to town! You done saved our money an’ saved my life!”

At the little bridge over the Coolie Creek on the edge of Tickfall, Skeeter Butts tried to stop her.

“Less blow a while an’ rest our foots, Coco,” he snickered. “Lawd, dat shore wus a dandy race!”

“Naw!” Coco declared. “I ain’t gwine rest till I gits home! Dis here mess is hot on my face. It wus cool at fust.”

“Pull down yo’ veil, honey!” Skeeter begged her. “Dis here face juice is too precious fer igernunt niggers to see.”

Coco adjusted her veil, and they lingered a moment at the bridge, cooling off under the shade of the trees. Finally Coco asked:

“Skeeter, wus dem niggers runnin’ away from me?”

“Naw!” Skeeter declared. “It wus dat hoodoo juice dat sont ’em skootin’ home. My maw shore told de truth ’bout dat juice.”

“Kin I have de rest of de juice, Skeeter?” Coco asked as they strolled slowly toward her cabin.

“Suttinly!” Skeeter said, producing the little jar from his pocket. “But I bet you don’t never use it no more, Coco.”

“I bet I does,” Coco giggled as they walked up the steps of her cabin.

The girl laid her hat and veil on the bed and sat down.

Skeeter broke into a loud laugh.

“Whut you laughin’ at, nigger?” Coco demanded.

“Go, take a peep at yo’se’f in de lookin’-glass. Coco,” Skeeter cackled. “Oh, my goodness gracious Moses----”

He sprang to his feet, caught hold of the mantel with both hands, and hung there, helpless with laughter, his alligator mouth stretched to the limit.

Coco walked to the mirror.

“My stars an’ garters!” she howled at sight of her face. “Skeeter Butts, is you made me look like de debbil’s wife on purpose?”

“Sure!” Skeeter whooped. “I wus ’bout to lose my bets--fawty dollars fer me an’ ten fer you----”

“Is you made me look like dis to save you money?” Coco demanded in irate tones. “You treat yo’ gwine-be wife like dat?”

“Yes’m!” Skeeter shrieked amid his paroxysms of laughter. “Oh, my honey bird--you is de dangest sight ever I did see since de day I wus borned on--whoop-ee!”

Coco suddenly snatched open the drawer of her bureau, and Skeeter saw the malignant gleam of a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver.

“Murder-r-r!” he shrieked as he shot through the door with the speed of a comet.

As he passed out of the door a bullet flattened against the jamb close to his face.

As he passed through the yard gate the splinters from two more bullets were shattered from the posts close beside him.

As he galloped wildly down the street two more bullets kicked up the dust around his flying feet.

He bounced through the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon and found his establishment crowded with negroes demanding back the money they had bet.

“All bets is declared off, niggers!” Skeeter panted.

He sank weakly into a chair, wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, fanned himself with his hat for a moment, then made another announcement:

“All my weddin’ arrangements is declared off, too, niggers!”

“How come?” the Rev. Vinegar Atts demanded, saddened by the loss of a wedding fee.

Skeeter panted for breath, and finally explained:

“Dat female mascop is done jinxed me!”

Messing with Matrimony

I

TICK PROMISES

Tick Hush looked like a negro who would work like a horse, and who would do as he was told.

Colonel Tom Gaitskill leaned back in his swivel chair for a comprehensive survey of this new applicant for a job.

He saw a brown-skinned man, with a big round head, a flat nose, heavy lips that were easy-smiling, and eyes which were as wide-open, as simple and innocent as the black, glass eyes of a china doll. He noticed that the man stood perfectly straight, without nervousness, and that his big hands were hard and square--the hands of a willing worker.

“I don’t know nothin’ but how to wuck de lan’, Marse Tom,” Tick told him. “Farmin’ is my trade. So when I heerd tell dat you done bought dat farm whar de ole pest-house was located at, I figgered dat dis wus a chance to git me a good job wid a good boss.”

The speech won Gaitskill’s favor. Negroes are afraid of hospitals, quarantine stations, and graveyards. He had had difficulty in securing a negro tenant for this newly acquired farm because the pest-house occupied a portion of the plantation.

“Aren’t you afraid of that farm, Tick?” Gaitskill smiled.

“Naw, suh,” Tick chuckled. “De cullud folks orate ’bout all dem bad ketchin’ diseases in de pest-house, but I ain’t gwine pester aroun’ in dat neighborhood none.”

Gaitskill determined to test the negro’s sincerity once for all.

“Think of the people who have died out there, Tick,” he said. “When I was a boy there was an epidemic of cholera, and the people died in that old stone house like flies. After that there was yellow fever, and nobody who was taken into that house for quarantine ever came out alive. There have been epidemics of diphtheria, scarlet fever, and smallpox. People are buried all around that quarantine station--you mean to tell me that you are not afraid?”

“Naw, suh, I ain’t skeart,” Tick grinned. “Dem folks is all been dead so long dey done fergot whut dey died of. Dem bad ketchin’ diseases is done kotch on to somebody else by dis time an’ been toted away. Of co’se, I ain’t gwine dig fer no buried money aroun’ dat spot.”

“I’m sure of that,” Gaitskill told him.

“An’ I don’t figger on havin’ much comp’ny out dar,” Tick chuckled. “Niggers ain’t gwine make my place no hangout. Ef I got inter real bad trouble, I might could hide in dat pest-house--nobody ain’t comin’ dar atter me.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Gaitskill smiled. “But I will not object if your idle, loafing friends stay away. At the same time, I presume you will often be lonesome--are you married?”

“Naw, suh.”

Gaitskill leaned back in his chair and tapped the top of the table with the rubber of his pencil.

“Why haven’t you married, Tick?” he inquired.

“Cain’t affode it, Marse Tom.”

“How do you know you can’t?” Gaitskill asked curiously.

“I figgered dat all out once, boss,” Tick grinned. “I wus wuckin’ as a wage-han’ on de Coon-Skin plantation. I tuck a notion I wus qualified to take a wife, I wus shore I could git one, but I warn’t shore I could suppote her.”

“How did you decide that matter?” Gaitskill asked.

“I wus doin’ my own cookin’ an’ livin’ in a cabin by myse’f alone, so I fixed up a way to try it out. I sot two plates at de table. Eve’y time I et a biskit, I sot a biskit on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I he’ped myse’f to a b’ilin’ of greens, I put some on dat yuther plate. Eve’y time I wanted a corn pone, I baked two in de hot ash, and’ throwed one of ’em out to my houn’ dawg. At de eend of de month I counted up my money whut wus lef’ over, an’--my Gawd, boss--it shore cain’t be did by me. Keepin’ a wife is too blame expenshus.”

Gaitskill pulled his heavy silken mustache down over his mouth to hide his widely smiling lips. Thus disheveled, he resembled a venerable walrus with an amiable disposition. After a while he spoke.

“I want a married man for the quarantine plantation, Tick. There is a good house on the other side of the farm from the pest-house, and there is ample accommodation for cows, chickens, and hogs. There’s a good garden plot and a number of fruit trees. An unmarried man won’t attend to these things, and I want some one who will keep the place up.”

“Dat’s powerful bad news, Marse Tom,” Tick replied as he took a step backward toward the door. “I suttinly had my whole insides sot on gittin’ charge of dat plantation. Yes, suh.”

Gaitskill sat waiting, confidently anticipating Tick’s next remark. The colored man’s mental processes were slow, but at last he arrived.

“Mebbe I might could git me a wife, Marse Tom,” he suggested.

“That’s the very idea I had in mind,” Gaitskill smiled. “If you promise to get married within the next two weeks, I’ll locate you on the pest-house plantation for the next five years.”

“Mebbe no woman won’t take no ole tough gizzard like me,” Tick remarked with humility.

“That’s up to you,” Gaitskill laughed. “I think if you will emphasize the fact that you are getting the management of a good farm, a good house, plenty of fruit, a number of cows, chickens, and a good garden, and the woman is sure that you will put as much on her plate as you do on your own--well, try it, anyway.”

“I’ll shore try it on,” the negro answered with ludicrous solemnity as he turned and started out of the door.

“And, listen, Tick!” Gaitskill exclaimed as he turned to pick up some papers on his desk and resume his interrupted work. “If you find a woman who is willing to marry you, let me know, and I’ll furnish the marriage license--it won’t cost you a cent!”

“Thank ’e, suh!” Tick grinned. “Dat ’ll he’p me a heap!”

Tick passed out of the bank and stood on the street in front of the big plateglass window. He took off his battered wool hat and scratched his woolly head in real perplexity. Certainly, Marse Tom had assigned him a tremendous task.

The world was full of marriageable colored women.

What woman should he ask?

He looked up and down the street with an appraising eye. He could see ten women; some were fat and some were lean, some were kind and some were mean--what kind should he choose?

“Dat white man shore is wropped up my kinky hair with a strong string,” he sighed as he mopped the sweat from his face. “I b’lieve I’ll go ax a few advices outen Skeeter Butts.”

II

SKEETER HELPS

No one knows how Skeeter Butts got his reputation among the members of his race as the possessor of supernal wisdom. Nevertheless, in every emergency it was their custom to ask Skeeter Butts, and Skeeter was always there with the good advice.

Inexpert physicians frequently say to their patients, “I’ll try this medicine, and if it don’t do the work, I’ll change to something else.” Skeeter followed the same method with his advice. With the inexpert physician, too, often one medicine calls for another; always with Skeeter, one suggestion led to another; and the reason with both was the same--because dangerous complications “set up.”

On matrimonial matters, Skeeter was supposed to be extremely wise.

He had courted every woman in Tickfall and its environs without actually committing matrimony. His experiences had been many and varied, and highly educational. So when Tick Hush appeared in the Hen-Scratch saloon with a look of perplexed melancholy upon his brown face, Skeeter at once heated up his mental incubator to hatch out a few rare thoughts.

“Dis here is a awful mess, Skeeter,” Tick began as he held an ill-smelling perique stogie between his stiff and trembling lips. “Marse Tom Gaitskill is shore kotch my tail in a cuttin’-box.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“He offered me a job on de pest-house plantation pervidin’ only but dat I gits married inside two weeks.”

“Dat’s easy,” Skeeter grinned. “Lady folks is crazy ’bout steppin’ off, an’ anybody kin git married.”

“How is dat did?” Tick asked.

“At de fust off-startin’, you seleck a woman whut you wants to marry,” Skeeter suggested.

“Dat gits me in a jam right now,” Tick mourned. “I’s powerful fondish on two nigger women.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter grunted. “Dat looks like cormpilations mought set up an’ us ’ll hab plenty doin’s. Name de femaleses!”

“Limit Lark an’ Vakey Vapp,” Tick told him.

“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed. “Why cain’t you rattle de bones, or cut cyards, or flop up a jitney, an’ decide which am de whicher?”

“’Tain’t pious,” Tick replied.

“You needn’t let dat pester you,” Skeeter cackled. “Ary one of dem womens will make you lose yo’ religium powerful soon atter you marries ’em.”

“Cain’t you think up no highbrow way of deecidin’?” Tick inquired.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter snapped. “But I don’t think brains he’ps a man whut’s got his mind sot on mettermony. Look at me--I’s a smart, up-to-date, new-issue nigger--an’ I cain’t git married to nothin’! Brains don’t git me even a two-times, secont-han’, hand-me-down widder!”

“Dat’s because you is too choosey,” Tick grinned.

“Mebbe so,” Skeeter replied, as he applied his mind to the problem before him. At last he suggested:

“How would it suit to write a letter to one of dem niggers an’ ax her to marry you?”

“Dat don’t he’p me,” Tick explained. “Ef I knowed which one to write to fust, I’d know which one to ax fust----”

“I sees,” Skeeter interrupted. “You likes ’em bofe alike, each one as much as de yuther. Well--whichsomever one you take, you’ll wish to Gawd you’d tuck de yuther one--lemme think!”

Skeeter lighted a cigarette and rubbed his nervous hands over his closely cropped head. Then he jumped to his feet with a yelp.

“I got it, Ticky!” he squealed. “Dis here is a histidious notion--listen. You an’ me will write a letter to bofe dem nigger womens. Den we’ll git a nigger whut cain’t read ner write to pick out one of dem letters outen a hat. De letter whut de igernunt coon picks out is de one to be sont.”

“Listen to dat!” Tick Hush applauded. “Dat sounds real cute. Git some paper an’ a writin’ pencil!”

Skeeter found two soiled envelopes, a writing-pad and the stub of a pencil. Sitting down at a table, he arranged them carefully, and said:

“You do de heavy thinkin’, Ticky, while I writes!”

Tick Hush rose to his feet and began a nervous pacing up and down beside the table. He cleared his throat, wiped the sweat from his face, fanned himself with his hat, took off one brogan shoe and shook the gravel out of it.

Skeeter Butts sat and waited.

At length, Tick straightened up, breathed like a husky bellows, and began:

“Dear Limit--” Then he broke off to ask: “How’m I gittin’ along so fur, Skeeter?”

“Dat’s a fine start-off,” Skeeter assured him. “I think she’ll kotch on to dat easy.”

“Say, ‘I wants to git married right away’--hold on, Skeeter!” Tick exclaimed in a sudden panic. “Don’t be so peart ’bout writin’ how soon--tell her atter while, befo’ long, when I kin git aroun’ to it, when de craps is all in, or somepin like dat.”

“Naw!” Skeeter retorted as he began to write. “Tell her de real facks: ‘I wants to git married in de nex’ ten days.’”

“O Lawdy,” Tick sighed. “Dat sounds powerful early to me!”

“Go on!” Skeeter snapped.

“Say, ‘I hopes--I hopes--I hopes----’”

“Shut up!” Skeeter snapped. “You sound like a danged ole donkey brayin’--you don’t hope nothin’! Tell on!”

“Say, ‘Me an’ Skeeter--us thinks you-all oughter marry us’!” Tick Hush dictated.

Skeeter Butts laid aside his pencil and leaned back, glaring at Tick with mingled pity and contempt.

“You is de worst igermus I knows of, Ticky Hush!” he squealed. “Ef you an’ me wus to swap heads, I’d die a durn fool! Stop talkin’ wid yo’ mouth an’ think!”

Thus admonished, Tick Hush took a big breath and a tidal wave of dictation splashed all around the head of Skeeter Butts.

“Say, ‘Will you marry me real soon?’ Say, ‘I got a job on Marse Tom Gaitskill’s pest-house farm.’ Say, ‘I’ll take you out to see de place.’ Say, ‘We lives togedder--plenty money, plenty eats. Answer prompt! Yours--yo’ husbunt--yo----’”

“Naw!” Skeeter interrupted. “You don’t want no answer through de mail-box--tell her to meet you somewhar to-morrer night, ef she is willin’ to take you on!”

“Dat’s right!” Tick agreed. Then he dictated: “Say, ‘Answer prompt. Ef you is willin’, meet me to-morrer night behime de Shoofly church under dat big sycamo’ tree. Yours truly Tick Hush.”

“Dat’s de way to talk it,” Skeeter applauded. “Ef you wants a hoe-cake, reach out yo’ hand fer it. Now wait a minute till I copy dis same letter, because we got to hab two.”

When Skeeter had made the copy, he addressed the two envelopes and slipped one message into each, being extremely careful not to get the letters mixed and put them in the wrong envelopes.

“Now, Skeeter,” Ticky asked, “who we gwine git to pick out dis letter?”

“Little Bit cain’t read nothin’,” Skeeter suggested.

“Let him pick,” Tick agreed.

In answer to Skeeter’s call, a diminutive, bullet-headed boy came from the rear room and picked up a white envelope.

“Dat’s all, Little Bit!” Skeeter told him. “You git!”

With the nervous solemnity of a man who was determining the destiny of two lives, Skeeter turned the envelope so he could see the address.

“It’s de letter to Limit Lark,” he almost whispered.

Tick Hush sighed deeply.

“Dat’s fine, Skeeter,” he said in a low voice. “I sorter hoped it’d be Limit Lark, an’ I’d be plum’ happy ef she takes me--only but now I kinder wish de yuther woman hadn’t drawed no blank.”

“Mebbe Limit won’t take you an’ dat ’ll gib you a shot at de yuther gal,” Skeeter said hopefully. “Lemme see. Limit wucks fer Judge Lanark. I’ll write his name on one corner of dis, an’ dey ’ll put de letter in de judge’s box.”

Skeeter stamped the envelope and called Little Bit.

“Take dis right straight to de post-office, boy,” he commanded.

“Much obleeged, Skeeter,” Tick said as he started out. “Dat he’ps a mighty load offen my mind.”

When Tick Hush had gone, Skeeter stood fumbling with the letter addressed to Vakey Vapp. He placed a stamp upon it. Then a slow grin spread over his face.

“It’s a plum’ pity dat Vakey Vapp don’t git no letter,” he murmured. “I’s gwine down an’ mail dis letter to her as soon as Little Bit gits back. Bofe dem womans cain’t want Tick, an’ ’twon’t do no harm. Mebbe it’ll do a large amount of great good.”

III

SAFETY FIRST

On his way to keep his engagement with Limit Lark under the tree behind the Shoofly church, Tick Hush had to pass the Hen-Scratch saloon. When he reached the door he walked in.

“I helt up a minute fer a few last advices, Skeeter,” he said nervously as he fumbled with his hat and panted like a tired dog.

“Whut ails you now?” Skeeter demanded.

“Ef dat woman meets me under dat tree, whut muss I say to her?” Tick inquired.

“Ax her did she git yo’ letter,” Skeeter suggested.

“She won’t be dar ef she don’t git de letter,” Tick protested.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter agreed, “but dat will make talk an’ it’s a good way to begin.”

“Whut muss I say atter dat?” Tick asked helplessly.

“Ax her will she marry you,” Skeeter said.

“Ef she say she will, whut muss I do next?” Tick wanted to know.

“Grab her!” Skeeter cackled. “Swing onto her like a cockle-bur to a woolly dawg’s y-ear!”

“Dat sounds easy!” Tick remarked, in a tone which indicated that he considered the task attended by both difficulty and danger. “I shore hopes I don’t make no miscue!”

“You cain’t make no mistake,” Skeeter grinned. “Womens likes to be hugged. I knows--I done tried it a millyum times. Dat’s yo’ one safe bet!”

“All right!” Tick remarked in a tone indicating that it was all wrong, and he rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’ll try to make de riffle--but you listen out, Skeeter! Ef you hear any real loud hollerin’ up de Shoofly way, you’ll know it’s me! I got a hunch dat de grabbin’ will be on de yuther foot--dat nigger woman is gwine grab me!”

“Dat’ll be best of all,” Skeeter said, with a knowing grin. “Ef she do de grabbin’, dat means you is shore kotch--pervidin’ she don’t bite an’ scratch at de same time.”

Tick slowly retreated from the room, and Skeeter promptly reached for his own hat and started in the same direction.

“Dat po’ fool nigger mought need a little back-up-ance,” said Skeeter, grinning to himself.

In the shadow of the Shoofly church Tick Hush waited, his anxious eyes fixed upon a bench under a sycamore tree where he was to meet and make the final matrimonial arrangements with Limit Lark.

Sometimes there comes out of the swamp into Tickfall a negro so simple that his life has consisted of eating, sleeping, and working. Having lived far from civilization, his innocence and ignorance are amazing. He is a joy to the planter, for he works hard and does just as he is told to do. Coming into contact with the negro social life of Tickfall, he is also a joy to his colored friends--he contributes so largely to the funny side of life.

Skeeter knew that Tick Hush was sure to contribute much to the gaiety of the negro inhabitants of Tickfall, and he had already tipped off his friends to be ready to help him when he needed them.

So Tick waited at the church, peering across the yard in the dim light of a young moon, feeling more nervous and panicky as the moments passed, repeating with dry lips the instructions of Skeeter Butts:

“Ax her did she git de letter--ax her to marry me--grab her!”

Then a sudden weakness overcame him and he sat down upon the ground so forcibly that he nearly jarred his head loose from the rest of his anatomy.

“Gosh!” he murmured.

A woman dressed in white had moved quickly across the churchyard and had seated herself upon the bench under the sycamore tree. Tick experienced about the same sensation that might come to a war spy backed up against a church wall and facing a firing squad. Tick knew he was facing his fate.

“I guess I’m got to make de riffle,” he sighed as he started slowly across the churchyard.

The woman saw him and stood up.

“Hello, Limit!” Tick began. “Did you git my letter?”

“Yes, suh,” the girl giggled.

She was a tall, neatly dressed woman, with typical African features and skin as black as coal. In the dim moonlight she began to look good to the embarrassed Tick Hush.

Tick felt his courage oozing away, so he began to speak in a loud voice:

“Is you gwine marry me?” he howled.

“Hush!” Limit whispered. “Some nigger woman is comin’ dis way--she mought hear us!”