Leaving Portland an hour after midnight, the deadhead Wildcat sat in
the smoking room of the Mud Turtle's San Francisco bound Pullman. The
Passengers were in bed. On the window end of the leather seat,
shivering himself out of a coating of Columbia river mud which he had
accumulated that afternoon during the smelt harvest, was the Mud
Turtle.
"Boy, dem shivers is workin' overtime. Neveh seed such a
partial-shiverin' fool. How come yo' mis'ry gits you by fractions?
Shiver all over an' git done wid it. Is you cold inside?"
The Mud Turtle forcibly arrested his chattering teeth. He calmed his
vocal organs and answered the Wildcat, but when he became articulate
his feet assumed the staccato movement.
The Wildcat looked at him. "Stan' up befo' you loses dat step. Leave me
learn 'at new foot work. I nevah seed feet so anxious. Don't waste dem
steps." The Mud Turtle grabbed his knees and shoved his feet firmly
against the floor of the car. "Wilecat, what I needs is gin till I gits
warmed up."
"You an' me bofe. Any boy needs gin. I been needin' it since away back.
You sho' looks cold. Was you a' ice man you'd be rich. I'se seed folks
cold an' I'se seed 'em shiver, but it sho' looks to me, Mud Turtle,
like you'se de champion shimmy king ob de worl'. Ketch dat leg!
Doggone, boy, you sho' would be pop'lar durin' de hot spell down where
us comes f'um. You makes me cold lookin' at you."
The Mud Turtle's jaws started on another chattering ruckus.
"Dere you goes agin! Now you cain't talk. Whilst you'se dumb I'se a
mind to use some cuss words on you what ol' Cap'n Jack learned me. Sho'
would use 'em, 'ceptin' dey'd burn you to a cinder. Stay here whilst I
'vestigates an' sees kin I 'cumulate some stove juice to heat you up
wid."
The Wildcat walked ahead through the train. He sought strong drink from
every porter he encountered, but his search was unsuccessful until he
came to the dining car.
"Whah at you think you is? Heavin? Cuba? Ain't nuthin' to drink on dis
car." A burly chef answered the Wildcat's inquiry.
"Dey's a cold boy back dere. Fell in de river an' stood out in de night
rain in Poteland. Can't git near him for' chips o' teeth flyin' through
de air. When he gits to shiverin' good he looks like him an' two twin
brothehs."
"White boy?" The chef ventured a casual inquiry.
"Is I said white boy? White boy packs it wid 'em. It's mah ol' Mud
Turtle podneh what craves de gin."
"'At's diff'unt." The chef grunted and got up from the poker game which
was raging. "Come wid me." He led the Wildcat into the kitchen of the
car. From one of the cupboards against the partition he lifted a pint
bottle full of a light yellow fluid. He poured some of this into a
smaller bottle. Out of another bottle containing a brown aromatic
liquid he filled the third bottle. He shook the smaller bottle until
the two liquids in it were mixed. He handed the bottle to the Wildcat.
"Give dat boy dis."
"Sho' will. What's de name o' dis licker?"
"Ain't got no public name. Us boys calls it 'hoof oil.' It kicks--some.
Better tie 'at boy's hind laigs does he take mo'n two drinks."
"What's de 'mgredients?"
"Dat's a church secret. Don't ask me no questions. 'At's five dollahs."
"Five dollahs! What you mean church secret?"
"I'se a hooch rabbi, off de run. I leads a Oakland ginagogue. I said
five dollahs. How you spec' us rabbis gwine to thrive, 'ceptin' by
takin' up de collection now an' den when we issues dis here rabbi
juice?"
"How come dat rabbi name?"
The chef looked at him. "You sho' is a' ignorant niggah. Ain't you met
up wid no rabbis yet?"
"Cain't say I is. What is dey?"
In the chef's gaze was an expression of contempt. "Boy, when you sees
me you sees a rabbi. I works at de rabbi business between trips. De
rabbi lodge was o'ganized wid all de culled bartenders. Now days mos'
all we rabbis is union bootleggers. Git back dah wid dat hoof oil befo'
it blows up. Whereat's de five dollahs?"
The Wildcat handed the chef a five-dollar bill and returned to his car,
where the Mud Turtle was doing the best he could to shake his arms off.
"Hot dam! Heah you is, ol' Mud Turtle. You sho' got a noble rattle in
yo' right han'. 'Pears like wid a pair o' gallopin' cubes you might
throw some killin' sevens. 'Sorb one drink o' dis heah rabbi juice an'
resurrect yo'self."
"One drink! Boy, gimme dat bottle. I handles mah licker!" The Wildcat
uncorked the bottle and held it to the Mud Turtle's chattering lips.
The Mud Turtle took a whiff of the liquid. Its perfume seemed to
inspire a new set of internal calisthenics in the Mud Turtle. After he
had quit writhing the Wildcat again pressed the remedy upon him. "Drink
it, fo' I drips it on you. Go ahead an' drink. I'll hol' yo' nose." He
succeeded in pouring the contents of the bottle into the Mud Turtle.
The Mud Turtle absorbed the hoof oil as far as his equator. Then he
reacted with a series of undulations in which was all of the reserve
energy of the surging deep. Then he suddenly became quiet, except for
his rolling eyeballs, from which gleamed an exalted light.
"Dat sho' tamed you. Is yo' insides hot?"
The Mud Turtle's only reply was a sudden stiffening of his right leg,
followed a second later by a similar movement with his left. His right
arm extended violently; then the ham-sized fist on the end of his left
arm went through the plate glass window beside him. He leaped to the
centre of the smoking compartment. For a moment he danced on both feet,
and then he began to stage a movement compared to which a cyclone was
only a boy's-size disturbance. He combined the activity of a whirling
dervish with the technique of an earthquake.
The Wildcat retreated to the safety of the tapestry curtain which hung
in the doorway. There for a little while he conducted an innocent
bystander business, which presently ended in disaster. Up to the
moment, the Mud Turtle had been silent, but now from his throat came a
yelp which drowned the rattle of the train.
The Wildcat sought to calm him down. "How come? Boy, git tame. You'll
wake de white folks in dis car an' dey'll massacre you. Shut up befo'
dey gits you."
The Mud Turtle's only answer was a renewed succession of yells.
Suddenly he stopped short where he stood, and for a space of minutes he
regarded his companion with a pair of glassy eyes under whose hypnotic
spell the Wildcat began to shrivel.
"Don' look dat way. You's got de graveyard eye. You took too much hoof
oil," he said weakly. "Lemme put 'at blanket 'roun' you." He took one
step towards the centre of the compartment, and on the instant the Mud
Turtle leaped at him.
The Wildcat had been in many a ruckus abroad and at home, but home was
never like this, and the worst he saw in France was a busy time at
Chateau Thierry. This was different trouble and worse. The Wildcat
abandoned his tactics of fair fighting. He kicked and struck wildly at
the Mud Turtle without effect. He despaired of conquering the tornado
which writhed on the floor beside him. Then he succeeded in obtaining
the blanket in which the Mud Turtle had been wrapped. He manoeuvered
for three seconds and threw a hitch around the Mud Turtle's neck and
another one around his leg. An instant later the whirlwind was trussed
up and confined with a hard square knot.
The Mud Turtle's yells gave place to a series of snarling grunts,
punctuated now and then with the yowling scream invented some years
back by the female panther. The Wildcat secured a folded towel from the
rack above his head, and in a moment the panther was muffled. The
victor stood panting for a little while, gazing at the conquest which
still writhed and rolled on the floor.
The Wildcat reached for the empty bottle and inspected five or six
drops of liquid which remained in it. "Hoof oil, you sho' is double
dynamite. Rabbi juice, I saves you. Mebbe sometime I meets up wid a
army whut starts a ruckus wid me. Den I'll 'sorb two drops an' win de
battle."
He replaced the cork in the bottle and stowed it carefully in his
pocket. "Does I need to I figger dat wid fo' drops ob dis hoof oil I
kin conquer de worl'."
He turned again to the Mud Turtle. The Pullman blanket lashed around
the Mud Turtle cramped his style to a considerable degree, but for all
of his impedimenta he was still active enough to threaten the
peace-on-earth theory. The Wildcat spoke to him, "Boy, I sequesters you
till de debbil leaves you. Mebbe by de time us gits to San F'mcisco
you'll be human again."
He stepped into the passage way, and at the end of the open section of
the car he opened the door of the linen closet. He returned to the
smoking room and dragged the Mud Turtle out of the room wherein the
ruckus had been staged. At the door of the linen closet the Wildcat
encountered a difficult problem, in that the least dimension of the Mud
Turtle in his present pose was greater than the width of the door.
He grabbed the door framing with both hands and applied his right foot
to the Mud Turtle's anatomy. "Whuf! Git in dere!" He strained hard at
his task, and presently a heroic effort was rewarded by the
disappearance of the Mud Turtle into the dark interior of the linen
closet. The Wildcat stooped down and removed the towel from about the
Mud Turtle's mouth. "Yell yo' head off, ol' debbil. You kain't soun'
loud in heah. Folks'll think de ol' engine is whistlin'."
Before the Wildcat shut the door the Mud Turtle took advantage of his
vocal freedom and emitted a strenuous howl. A middle-aged gentleman
half way down the car stuck his head through the berth curtains. He
called to the Wildcat. "Is she whistlin' for Ashland?"
"No suh. 'Spec' it was a cow on de track or sumpin'. 'At's all. I wakes
you up neah Ashlan'." The Wildcat neglected to say which side of
Ashland would be selected for the awakening ceremonies.
He walked to the far end of the car, and on his return journey he
accumulated the shoes of his passengers.
"I shines me dese heah shoes an' den I sees kin I sleep me some. I bet
was ol' Mud Turtle a aig, chances is he'd hatch out in dat linen
closet--so hot."
In the smoking compartment the Wildcat spent an hour shining shoes. He
distributed them with more or less accuracy, and presently he was
stretched out sound asleep on the long leather seat.
"I eats when I kin git it,
I sleeps mos' all de time.
I don't give a doggone
If the sun don't neveh shine."