By sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the
third day by half.
In the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had
wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped
their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for
each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of
their disposition and temperament.
The day before Plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill
every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal
music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of
difference of opinion and argument--so he thought. While he and his wife
were dressing, Plaster began:
"Does you know dat I am dyin'
Fer a little bit of love?
Everywhar dey hears me sighin'
Fer a little bit of love.
Fer dat love dat grows mo' strong,
Fills de heart wid hope and song,
I has waited--oh, so long--
Fer a little bit of love."
"Whut makes you sing so dang loud, Plaster?" Pearline asked wearily, as
she rested her head upon her hands. "You sounds like a brayin' jackace
mournin' because he done tumbled down a open well."
"One time you said you liked my singin'," Plaster retorted.
"I couldn't tell you whut I really thought about it in dem sad days,"
Pearline remarked.
They ate their noon meal in silence because neither could think of
anything to say. Plaster had got the hook at the very beginning of his
musical career, and the things he thought of to say were not fit for
utterance or publication.
As they rose from the table, they looked with surprise out of the
window.
A long procession of negroes approached the cabin. All were dressed in
their best clothes and the Rev. Vinegar Atts was in the lead.
The bridal pair suddenly remembered something, and they stepped out on
the porch to receive them as they filled the space in front of the
house.
Vinegar took his famous preaching attitude in front of the porch,
inflated his lungs and began:
"Brudder an' Sister Sickety, us is all rejoiced dat you two honey-loves
is got mighty nigh through wid yo' honey-tower widout no fuss or fight.
We welcomes you back to our sawsiety wid glad arms. We hopes dat you
will love each yuther mo' or less an' off an' on ferever! We knows dat
you has well earnt dis house an' lot dat Marse John Flournoy has gib you
an' we cullud folks wants to make you a present of a few change so you
kin buy some nice house-furnicher an' start out fresh an' new."
Thereupon Vinegar laid his stove-pipe hat upside down upon the floor of
the porch, turned and surveyed the assembly while he mopped his bald
head with a yellow bandana handkerchief.
"Walk right up, brudders an' sisters, an' drap yo' few change in dis
stove-pipe preachin'-hat!"
They came up one by one, laughingly depositing their money, and pausing
to shake hands with the bride and groom.
When the ceremony ended, Vinegar emptied his hat upon the floor of the
porch, placed it upon his head with a farewell flourish, and led the
negroes out of the yard.
"Dis money is de fambly secret dem three nigger womens whispered to me,
honey," Pearline giggled.
"Dat's de myst'ry dem three committee fellers tole me," Plaster
chuckled.
The two sat down and counted the money--twenty-five dollars and thirty
cents!
"Dat thuty cents is yourn to spend foolish, Pearline," Plaster said
generously as he pushed three dimes toward her and clutched with both
hands at the rest.
"Hol' on nigger!" Pearline snapped. "I ain't no bayou minnow to git jes'
a little nibble of dat money--half of dat cash spondulix is mine."
"Yes'm, but I is de man of de fambly an' I oughter keep it an' han' it
out to you as you needs it."
"I needs my half right now," Pearline snapped, placing both her hands
upon the clutching paws of Plaster Sickety.
"Whut you gwine do wid twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" Plaster demanded in
irate tones.
"Buy me a hat!" Pearline told him.
"You's a fool!" Plaster informed her. "Female hats ain't furnicher."
"Dis money furnishes me wid a hat," she announced positively.
Then they sat for a few minutes in silence, both keeping their hands
spread out over the money.
"Whut you gwine do wid yo' twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" Pearline
demanded at last.
"I figgers on buyin' a fiddle," Plaster told her. "Plenty money kin be
made playin' fiddles, an' I b'lieves I could learn to fiddle ef I had a
good chance."
"I ain't gwine hab no fiddlin' nigger in my house," Pearline snorted.
"I's druther be married to a phoneygraft."
"You ain't gwine be married to nothin' very long ef you don't leggo dis
money, nigger!" Plaster snarled.
"I is."
"You ain't."
"Don't gimme no sass."
"You sassed me fust."
The woman raised one hand from the money and made an unexpected
sideswipe at Plaster's jaw with her open palm. The blow landed with a
smack that jarred the very marrow of his bones and keeled him over the
edge of the porch to the ground. As he fell sprawling, the chain
tightened and jerked Pearline off her perch and she fell to the ground
with a squall. Then for ten minutes there was a Kilkenny cat scrap on
the front lawn.
Pearline bit and scratched and pulled hair and tore clothes. She had
decidedly the best of the rookus until her unusual activities caused her
to get a twist of the chain around her neck. Plaster thanked the Lord
and choked her into inaction and submission by the simple process of
pretending to escape from her and thus tightening the chain.
When she was choked almost to suffocation, he edged her to the porch,
lifted the twenty-five dollars and thirty cents into his own pockets,
and released the chain.
[Illustration: "THE BLOW LANDED WITH A SMACK THAT JARRED THE VERY MARROW
OF HIS BONES AND KEELED HIM OVER THE EDGE OF THE PORCH TO THE GROUND."]
When Pearline recovered her breath she dropped flat upon the ground at
her feet and howled like a Comanche until the going down of the sun.
Plaster did not attempt to console or quiet her. When he spoke again, he
reached out and touched the bawling woman with his foot.
"Git up idjit!" he exclaimed. "Marse John expecks us to come an' repote
to him an' git dese here handcuffs tuck off."
Sheriff John Flournoy was waiting for them as they came across his lawn
to the porch where he sat.
Then for half an hour he listened to a tirade of crimination and
recrimination which crackled with profane expletives like thorns under a
pot. When Plaster paused to breathe, Pearline took up the complaint.
When Pearline stopped from exhaustion, Plaster resumed his lamentations.
When the storm of vituperation subsided, Flournoy sat in his chair like
a man who had been pounded over the head with a brick. It was some time
before he could formulate his ideas. Then he spoke with difficulty.
"I judge from what I have heard that your three days' experience
together has convinced you that your tastes are entirely dissimilar and
your natures incompatible."
"Yes, suh, dat's c'reck."
"The information you offer conveys to me the impression that a woman
loves shadows, but a man loves sunshine and glare; a woman loves dress,
but a man loves tobacco; a woman desires daintiness and neatness
attended with any degree of discomfort, but a man prefers comfort with
no matter how much litter and mess; a woman loves indoor sports, like
sewing, and a man loves outdoor sports, like whittling sticks and making
the acquaintance of a hound-dog with fleas on his body and mud on his
feet; a man loves to sing and hear himself sing, and the woman prefers
to hear some other man sing; a woman wants her female companions with
their confidences and their secrets, and a man desires his male
companions and their secrets, but neither party to the matrimonial
alliance is willing that the partner should keep a secret. Am I right as
far as I've gone?"
"Dat's right!" they said in positive tones.
"But de fuss part, Marse John, is de money!" the woman shrieked.
"Certainly," Flournoy agreed softly. "Matrimony is always a matter of
money."
Then Flournoy took a key from his pocket and opened the bracelets on
their wrists. The chain fell at their feet. The bride and bridegroom
looked away, each ignoring the presence of the other.
Plaster Sickety thrust both hands into his pockets, brought out
twenty-five dollars and thirty cents and laid it into the open palm of
the sheriff.
"Fer Gawd's sake, git me a deevo'ce!" he pleaded.
"Make it two, Marse John," the girl urged. "I's plum' nauseated wid dat
nigger man."
The bride and bridegroom turned and walked away, choosing different
paths and going in opposite directions. They did not look back.
The sheriff stooped and picked up the rattling chain.
Then he went into the house and slammed the door.