muttered. “Dem chillun got deir whistlin’ gift from deir paw. I could
whistle jes’ like dat befo’ I loss all de toofs outen my head.”
Instantly a footstep sounded in the rear of the house, and the door
opened. Figger Bush entered the room and stopped near the door, looking
at Popsy Spout with eyes as wistful as the eyes of a hound.
“Whar de debbil is you been at, Figger?” the old man howled. “I been
callin’ you all de mawnin’!”
“I been settin’ aroun’,” Figger muttered. “I’s tired!”
“By dam’!” the old man snorted. “Mebbe yo’ legs is a little feeble an’
tired, but yo’ stomick don’t never weary none. Whut you been doin’ in
dat kitchen--eatin’ or drinkin’?”
“Nothin’,” Figger mumbled.
“Ef you been drinkin’ dat dram agin, I’ll find out about it!” Popsy
ranted in the falsetto of senility. “Licker talks mighty loud when it
gits loose from de jug, an’ de fust time you whoops a yell I’ll wallop
yo’ hide wid dis stick.”
“Yes, suh,” Figger murmured, rubbing his shaved head.
“Whar is yo’ hair gone at?” Popsy howled, glaring at Figger’s bald pate.
“Ole Mis’ Mildred cut it off!” Figger prevaricated with a snicker. “She
say she wanted to sot a hin an’ needed my wool to make a nest.”
“Huh!” the old man snorted in disgust. “It’s a pity she didn’t take one
of dese here wooden teethpicks an’ beat yo’ brains out while she wus at
it!”
Figger turned and started to go out.
“Hey, Figger!” Popsy squalled.
“Whut?” Figger asked.
“You stay aroun’ dis cabin so you kin wait on me!”
“Yes, suh,” Figger grinned.
“Ef you leave dis house ’thout axin’ my say-so, I’ll skin you alive!”
“I ain’t gwine leave you, Popsy,” Figger assured him. “Nobody cain’t
git me away from dis cabin widout compellment!”
The mocking-bird in the top of the pecan tree started again its song of
delirious music.
“Go out an’ tell dat brat to stop dat whistlin’ so I kin take me a
nap!” Popsy commanded, as his weary head rested upon the back of the
chair and he closed his age-dimmed eyes.
Figger stooped and picked up Popsy’s big red handkerchief and passed
out. He sat down upon the steps of the porch and unwrapped from the
kerchief a cheap photograph of a man with a shoe-brush mustache and a
woolly, kinky head. He gazed upon the picture for a long time, then
tore it into tiny bits and tossed the fragments over in the high grass.
“Dat kind of Figger Bush is dead!” he announced to himself, while in
his eyes there glowed the light of a great resolution. “I’s related
to Popsy by bornation, an’ me an’ Popsy is kinnery of de Gaitskills
by fightin’ wid de white folks endurin’ of de war. Us is all quality
niggers, an’ we got to ack like we wus white!”
On top of the hill Figger heard the rumbling of two wagons, bringing
the last of Scootie’s household goods to her new home.
“Won’t de widder be supprised!” Figger chuckled. “Bless Gawd! I ain’t
as dead as she an’ me thought I wus!”
He sat chuckling to himself until he recalled Popsy’s last command, and
sprang to his feet.
“He tole me not to let nothin’ disturb his nap!” he muttered, as he
walked rapidly up the hill toward the wagons. “Now I’s gwine gib de
widder de wust jolt she ever got in her life!”
He hid behind a large tree until the first wagon came to where he was
standing. Scootie was driving, and she looked like one who had suddenly
come into possession of a great treasure.
“Hol’ on a minute, Scootie!” Figger exclaimed, stepping from behind the
tree. “Popsy sont me up here to tell you not to disturb him till he
tuck a leetle nap!”
“’Tain’t so!” Scootie snapped. “Popsy don’t know yo’ favor or yo’ face!”
But as she looked at Figger Bush she knew beyond a doubt that he was
installed in his grandfather’s cabin. Figger’s face glowed with a light
of happiness and peace, and there was even something in the face which
held the promise of a new manhood through the influence of the grand
old man who now lay asleep in the cabin.
Scootie began to weep.
“I reckin I’ll hab to take my furnicher an’ move out, Figger,” she
sobbed. “I kinder hoped I could live wid Popsy an’ take keer of him,
an’ make him happy in his ole age--but all dat wus too much luck fer
Scootie!”
“’Twouldn’t be mo’ dan you deserve, Scootie,” Figger said in a pleading
tone. “An’ I b’lieve you an me could fix it up so dat it wouldn’t be
onpossible!”
“How?” Scootie asked.
“Leave dem mules standin’ here in de shade, go wid me to de cotehouse
an’ git some weddin’ licenses, an’ git Vinegar Atts to marrify us!”
Figger suggested.
Scootie promptly hit the ground with both feet, landing by the side of
Figger Bush.
“Come on, honey!” she said, seizing him by the hand. “Less go quick!”
“Kin I go, too?” Little Bit, the driver of the second wagon asked in
a whining tone. No answer was given to him, so he jumped down and
followed.
From the top of the hill, they looked down to where the red brick
court-house baked in the summer sun. Side by side they started toward
the court-house, and the new life.
On the other side of the hill, sole guardian of the grand old man in
the cabin, the mocking-bird sat in the pecan tree and sang its song of
love.
Hoodoo Eyes.
The swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon fell apart and Conko Mukes
walked in.
He was a large man and, to look at, very impressive.
The negroes in Tickfall had never seen clothes like his, so large in
stripe and so variegated in color. On either lapel of his coat was a
large, brassy emblem of some secret lodge.
On the middle finger of each hand was a rolled-gold band ring nearly
an inch wide. Across the vast expanse of his sky-muckle-dun-colored
waistcoat was a gangrened near-gold watch-chain like the cable chain
of a Mississippi River steamboat, and a charm suspended from it was
constructed of the talons of an eagle.
His ponderous feet shook the floor as he walked across the saloon and
seated himself at a table. Removing his stove-pipe hat, he placed
that upon one chair, kicked another chair from under the table on
which to deposit his feet, and leaned back in a third chair, with his
gorilla-like arms resting comfortably across the back of a fourth. The
barroom appeared to be empty.
“Hey, dar! Come here--eve’ybody!” he bellowed.
Skeeter Butts peeped at Conko Mukes around the corner of the bar behind
which he was sitting.
The black face which he beheld advertised unmistakably what Conko Mukes
was. It was the mug of a typical prize-fighter.
The face was clean-shaven, accentuating a jaw, heavy, brutal,
aggressive. His head was also shaven, and every bump on his villainous
cranium stood forth like a promontory on a level plain. His eyes were
heavy-lidded, lazy, sleepy-looking, like the eyes of a lion.
The nose had been broken and was crooked; his thick lips had been
battered in many fights until they were shapeless, and the mouth was
simply an ugly gash across his face. And to complete the adornment,
one ear was “tin” and the other was cauliflower, both permanently
disfigured and disfiguring.
Conko Mukes moved in his chair as if burdened by the heavy weight of
his muscles, and his heavy-lidded eyes glowed yellow in the dim light
of the saloon as he glared around him. Again his voice boomed:
“Hey! Am eve’ybody done hauled off an’ died? Come out here, Skeeter
Butts--whut’s hidin’ you?”
“I guess dis is my move-up,” Skeeter remarked as he pocketed a handful
of silver which he had been counting behind the bar and came to the
table.
Conko watched the diminutive darky until he stopped by his table.
Then the lazy, lion-like eyes glowed with a yellow fire, and with a
slapping motion of his monstrous hand he exclaimed:
“Shoo, fly, don’t bodder me!”
Skeeter Butts cackled like a nervous hen, fluttered well out of reach
of that hand, and snickered:
“Lawd, Conko, you sho’ is one powerful funny man! Dat gits you a
free-fer-nothin’ drink. You is better’n a show-actor.”
“You done kotch de lizard by de tail, son--kotch him de fust time,”
Conko informed him in deep, rumbling bellow. “I is a holy show!”
“How is you feelin’ to-day, Conko?” Skeeter asked as he set the drink
before him.
“I feels like I is sorry I wus borned to die!” Conko answered,
swallowing the raw whisky with one gulp and with a dry eye. “How is de
bettin’ gittin’ on?”
“De niggers takes up eve’y bet, Conko,” Skeeter replied. “You see, dis
here Hitch Diamond--nobody ain’t never knocked him out yit!”
“He ain’t never fit nobody yit,” Conko remarked easily. “Befo’ dis day
is over I’ll make him wish he’d been borned a little nigger gal!”
“I hopes so,” Skeeter said with a nervous flutter in his tone. “I done
bet de limit. Ef it ain’t a win wid you, I’s gwine hab de misforchine
to lose fawty dollars.”
With a pompous air Conko Mukes thrust his hand into his pocket and
brought out a large roll of bills which had been carefully wrapped
around a fat corn-cob. He tossed it across the table.
“Dar am fifteen dollars whut you kin bet fer me, Skeeter. Dat many
money says to you dat I’s gwine make Hitch Diamond dig a hole in de
groun’ to git away from de Georgia Cyclome.”
“Hitch specify dat he gwine rub his gloves wid hoodoo-juice,” Skeeter
said as he fumbled with the corn-cob. “Ain’t you got no stunts like dat
to pull on?”
Conko Mukes opened his eyes with a sudden and tremendous interest. He
sat for a moment in deep thought. Then he answered in a regretful tone:
“Naw, suh, I ain’t never studied ’bout dat befo’. I don’t depen’ on no
hoodoo-juice. I depen’s on elbow-grease! I fights straight, and hits
hard, an’ knocks ’em out on de level.”
“Yes, suh, elbow-grease is powerful good,” Skeeter said uneasily; “but
I figgers dat us oughter hab all de he’p we kin git! Of co’se, I don’t
b’lieve in no hoodoo myse’f, but----”
“Us don’t need no hoodoo,” Conko interrupted. “Let Hitch Diamond git
it. He needs it. He don’t know it yit, but he needs a dorctor, a
preacher, a undertaker, an’ a nice, deep grave in de cem’tery!”
“I wouldn’t be so powerful shore ’bout dat, Conko,” Skeeter suggested.
“You ain’t never seed dat Hitch Diamond pufform.”
“Whut sort lookin’ coon is he?” Conko asked.
“He’s mo’ tall dan you, wider dan you, heavier dan you is. He’s got
arms long enough to hug a elerphunt aroun’ de stomick.”
“I’ll break dem long arms in fo’ pieces an’ wrop ’em aroun’ Hitch’s
neck like a mournin’ rag,” Conko declared.
“Hitch kin put his hands on yo’ head an’ mash yo’ face plum’ down in
yo’ stomick--jes’ like you wus a mud-turkle!” Skeeter said.
“He won’t git no chance to mash,” Conko assured him. “I’ll make him
think he’s got bofe hands tied behime him an’ bofe behime foots kotch
in a bear-trap.”
“Hitch won’t take but two licks at you,” Skeeter continued. “One’ll be
a up-cut whut’ll punch you in de air like a balloom; den he’ll take a
side-swipe at you when you is comin’ down, an’ phish!--you’ll be over
on de yuther side of Jordan!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Whut you reckin I’ll be doin’ to him when I’s
comin’ down?”
“De las’ time Hitch had a prize-fight,” Skeeter remarked, as he tried
to roll a cigarette with fingers which trembled and spilled all the
tobacco, “he specify dat he didn’t need but one glove, an’ he made em
tie it on his _elbow_. He fiddled aroun’ an’ dodged dat big stiff till
de nigger got in reach of dat elbow; den Hitch gib him a little jab in
his soul-complexion, an’ dat nigger went to heaben fer a week!”
“Huh!” Conko grunted. “Hitch’ll need gloves on his elbows to-day, too.
But he’ll want ’em to keep him from hurtin’ his crazy-bones when I
knocks him down.”
“Hitch Diamond challenged Jack Johnsing,” Skeeter declared. “An’ you
know whut dat nigger champeen of de worl’ went an’ done? He got on a
big ferry-boat an’ went to Framce an’ specify dat he wustn’t never
comin’ back to dis country no mo’!”
“Jack Johnsing got skeared too soon,” Conko replied easily. “I always
said he had a yeller streak.”
“I seed Hitch fight a bear once,” Skeeter informed him. “He kotch dat
bear by de tail, an’ dat bear gib one loud squall an’ drug Hitch plum’
to Arkansas befo’ Hitch could let loose his handholt!”
“Huh,” Conko grunted, undismayed. “I ain’t got no tail.”
Skeeter stopped. His thought could go no higher. His imagination could
reach no further.
Conko lighted a big cigar and puffed smoke like a steam-engine. He
laid two monstrous hands, palm upward, upon the table between them and
remarked:
“Dese here hands needs exoncise, Skeeter. Hitch Diamond is shore gwine
make a good punchin’ bag.”
“I hopes you gits yo’ punch in fust,” Skeeter sighed, wishing that he
had not bet so heavily.
“Whut’s de matter wid you?” Conko Mukes bawled. “Is you gittin’ cold
foots?”
“Naw. Nothin’ like dat,” Skeeter hastened to assure him, “but----”
“’Tain’t no need to git anxious,” Conko declared as he rose to go. “You
go out an’ bet my money, an’ remember dat de Georgia Cyclome is a real
twister.”
“Hitch is a stem-winder, too,” Skeeter declared.
As Conko Mukes tramped out of the saloon, Skeeter Butts wiped the
clammy sweat from his face and sighed.
“My Lawd!” he moaned. “I tried to skeer dat nigger up so he’d be
keerful, but Conko don’t take no skeer. Leastwise, he don’t talk dat
way. I got de hunch dat he ain’t nothin’ but beef an’ wind an’ a loud
noise. I bet I’s gwine lose eve’y bet whut I done bet. Dat’s de bes’
bet I could bet!”
“Huh!” Conko Mukes meditated as he walked slowly toward that portion of
Tickfall inhabited by the whites. “Dat Skeeter Butts specify dat Hitch
Diamond is some fightin’ coon. I wish I hadn’t bet dem fifteen dollars;
I cain’t affode to lose ’em. I needs he’p. Wonder whar I could git some
of dat hoodoo-juice?”
* * * * *
Professor Dodo Zodono, medium, magician, hypnotist, stood on a box in
front of the Tickfall drug-store, adjusted the joints of his flute, and
placed it to his lips. The sweet, piercing notes quickly drew a crowd
around him.
The professor was tall and thin, with long black hair, big black eyes,
a long mustache, and long, snaky fingers. His black clothes appeared
to hang upon his emaciated form like draperies, a circumstance which
helped him greatly in his sleight-of-hand tricks.
Two assistants stood on the ground beside the box. Both were tall
and very thin, with lank, damp hair and listless, humid eyes, and
tallow-colored skin always moist with nervous sweat--you have seen many
like them lying in hypnotic sleep in some show window, or have peered
down a wooden chute to see them slumbering in a coffin six feet under
the ground.
When the music ended Professor Zodono handed his flute to one of his
assistants and began his spiel:
“Fellow citizens, I have called you together to give you a little
demonstration of my powers.
“We are surrounded by mystery. There is a vast realm of the unknown
which science has not explored. I shall demonstrate to you to-night
that we have not yet even reached the edge of the great ocean of
discovery--price of admission, fifteen and twenty-five cents!
“I shall show you wonders which cannot be accounted for. You will hear
sounds which defy the laws of acoustics. You will behold appearances
which fly in the face of investigation, and effects which do not appear
to have a sufficient cause--all for the insignificant price of fifteen
and twenty-five cents!
“I shall now give you a free demonstration of hypnotism. This is no
new thing, and I do not charge you a cent to see an old and familiar
stunt. It is nothing but a nervous sleep induced by the active mind of
the operator upon the subjective consciousness of the hypnotic. This
power has been known to the world for eighteen hundred years. Under
this influence, the operator can make his subject dance, sing, speak,
or perform any stunt he pleases. In New York, Dr. Meseran hypnotized
Sandow, the modern Samson, and that giant who could lift three hundred
pounds above his head with one hand could not even lift his hand to his
head to scratch his ear----”
At this point there was a slight commotion in the closely packed crowd
in front of Zodono. A giant darky gorgeously dressed was pressing
himself to the front. It was Conko Mukes.
His manner and speech, as he pushed aside both whites and blacks, were
the very apotheosis of deference and courtesy:
“’Scuse me, boss! Beg parding, kunnel! Fer Gawd’s sake, don’t lemme
disturb you-alls! Gotter git to de drug-sto’ prompt, cap’n. Please,
suh, let a po’ mis’ble nigger git by fer de white folks’ med’cine.
Thank ’e, suh, de Lawd is shore gwine bless you fer dis nigger’s sake.”
By the time Conko Mukes was within four feet of the box on which Zodono
stood, the professor had resumed his speech and the crowd had forgotten
the interruption. Mukes stopped where he was and listened.
“Every positive character in the world has this power of hypnotism over
every negative character,” the professor proclaimed. “It is the simple
power of mind over mind by suggestion--all of which I shall prove to
you to-night at the opera-house for a few nickels admission--price,
fifteen and twenty-five cents!”
At this point one of the professor’s assistants walked toward the box,
his feet dragging and moving as if some one had him by the shoulders,
leading him forward. His thin arms dangled at his sides, and his bony
fingers twitched and writhed like the tail of a snake.
He climbed upon the box with awkward movements as if the joints of his
shoulders and hips were stiff and the hinges rusty, and they hurt him.
He walked slowly, reluctantly toward Zodono, and the professor threw up
his hand, snapped his fingers, and cried “Stop!”
The assistant flinched, dodged like a dog, and the crowd snickered.
“My Gawd!” Conko Mukes mumbled in a low tone. “Look at dat!”
For a moment the professor glared in the eyes of his assistant; then
his hands began making slow, stroking motions downward before the
subject’s face. Red spots came and went in the bleached cheeks of the
hypnotic; his breath was short and quick; his nostrils and lips were
pinched.
The crowd looked on breathlessly as the hand of the professor, fingers
outstretched, clawed the air before that weak, chalky face, with its
twitching lips and feeble, trembling chin.
“Ah!” the professor exclaimed theatrically, grinning his triumph in the
face of the crowd.
“Ah!” the crowd echoed with an expulsive sound of breath released after
a moment of breathless attention.
The man stood before them, asleep on his feet, his body waving slowly
like a feather suspended from a thread and gently wafted by a slight
breeze.
The druggist and his two clerks came out, picked up the hypnotic, who
was as stiff as a board; carried him into the drug-store, and laid him
flat on his back in the show window.
Then the druggist unfolded a sheet, covered the body, tucked the
covering close around the sleeper’s chalky face, and stepped across the
store to the soda-fountain with an eye alert and a hand ready for trade.
“Remember, gents!” Professor Zodono exclaimed. “An educational and
instructive show for men, women, and children--opera-house to-night at
eight o’clock sharp--fifteen and twenty-five cents!”
Then, followed by his other assistant, the professor walked slowly up
the street to the opera-house to dress the stage for his evening’s
performance.
They were followed at a respectful distance by Conko Mukes.
The moment the two men had passed out of sight through the stage
entrance in the alley by the Gaitskill store, Conko Mukes knocked on
the door.
“Open up, Bill!” Zodono commanded. “I guess that is the nigger
washwoman come after those curtains.”
When Conko Mukes entered, Zodono came forward.
“Have you come after the washing?” he asked.
Conko Mukes took off his hat, and his immense mouth with its mashed
and shapeless lips spread wide in an ugly grin.
“Don’t you know me, Mister Jimmy?” Conko asked.
“My Lord!” Zodono exclaimed after a moment’s inspection. “You damn’ ole
coon! What you doing in this place, Conko?”
“I had to take a good riddunce of Georgia, Mr. Jimmy,” Conko growled,
grinning like a bear. “De gram jury lawed me all de time an’ dat place
got too hot. How is all de white folks an’ de niggers in Tupelo?”
“Fine--when I saw them last,” Zodono grinned. “The grand jury lawed me,
too, and I left.”
“Is dat how come you change yo’ name?” Conko asked in polite tones.
“Oh, no; it wasn’t as bad as that,” Zodono laughed. “But I could never
make any money in my business with my real name. A spiritualistic
medium, fortune-teller, magician, and hypnotist named Jim Skaggs--that
would never do. What are you doing here?”
“I’se prize-fightin’, Mr. Jimmy. I been fightin’ up’n down de
Mississippi River, an’ I come here to git a fight dis atternoon wid a
nigger named Hitch Diamond.”
“How did you like my show out in front?” Zodono asked.
“It wus fine, Mr. Jimmy!” Conko exclaimed in enthusiastic tones. “Dat’s
how come I wants to see you. I would like to ’terrogate you ’bout dat
show.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Whut I axes you is dis,” Conko began; “you s’pose a nigger could learn
how to hypnertize like you?”
Zodono looked at Bill, his assistant, and winked. Then he answered:
“Certainly, Conko.”
“How is it did, boss?” the negro asked eagerly.
Zodono looked at the negro for a moment then grinned. He looked at Bill
and Bill grinned back. Here was a chance to have some fun.
“You’re getting ready to pull some hypnotic stunt in that prize-fight
this afternoon, ain’t you Conko?” the professor asked.
“Yes, suh,” Conko chuckled like a rumbling train. “I figger ef I could
put dat fightin’ coon to sleep like you done dat white boy in front of
de drug-sto’, dat I could knock him out widout wastin’ so much wind an’
elbow-grease.”
“Well,” Professor Zodono began, “first you walk straight up to the
subject and look into his eyes.”
“Which eye does you look at his eyes wid?” Conko asked.
“Both eyes--your own eyes!” Zodono explained.
“Yes, suh.”
“Then you make a stroking motion in front of his face with the fingers
of your hand extended like you were combing wool----”
“Yes, suh; you paws at him.”
“Then you bring your dominant will to bear upon the subject’s
subconscious mind, willing him to sleep--to stand upright and sleep----”
“Dat sounds easy,” Conko grinned.
“Do you think you could do that?” Zodono inquired.
“Suttinly. Dat is--mebbe so. I’d shore like to try it one time befo’ I
hypnertized dat fightin’ coon----”
“All right. I’ll let you try it on a white man. If you can hypnotize a
white man, you can certainly come it over on a nigger. We’ll try it on
Bill.”
Zodono turned and glanced at his assistant. That glance was like the
stroke of a whip-lash, and Bill quailed and flinched, the grin faded
from his face, and the flush changed to a deadly pallor.
“Now, Conko,” Zodono commanded. “Walk right up to Bill. Look straight
into his eyes.”
Bill stood like a rag doll, or anything else you can think of which is
spineless and helpless and non-resistant.
Conko walked up and glared into Bill’s listless, humid eyes like a
monstrous, bloodthirsty gorilla eying a wax dummy. Bill did not see the
negro, for unknown to Conko, the tall form of Zodono stood just behind
him, and the professor’s eyes held the hypnotic as a snake charms a
bird.
“Now,” Zodono commanded in sharp tones to the darky, “make a stroking
motion before his face--slow--slow--slow. Now bring your will to bear
upon his subconscious mind--that’s it. Sleep--sleep--sleep--ah!”
With a horrified expression upon his face, Conko stood staring at the
face of the man before him. The hypnotic slowly teetered forward and
backward, threatening with each swaying movement to lose his balance
and tumble over.
“Catch him!” Zodono commanded sharply.
Conko sprang forward and eased the falling man to the floor.
“My Gawd!” a strange negro voice exclaimed. “Did anybody ever see de
beat of dat?”
Professor Zodono wheeled and stared at the frightened face of a large,
full-bosomed, golden-brown girl, whose long, straight, black hair clung
around her face, by contrast making her octoroon complexion almost
white. Her bold, black eyes were big with wonder and awe, and the hands
clasped over her bosom were trembling.
“What do you want?” Zodono snapped.
“I come fer de washin’,” the girl stammered; “but I wants to git outen
here real prompt.”
“Don’t be afraid,” the professor said, as he walked over to a table
where a pile of soiled curtains were stacked. “That man is not dead;
just sleeping.”
The girl backed around behind Zodono and peeped at Conko.
“Kin dat nigger wake dat white man up?” she asked.
“Yes,” Zodono answered. Then he called to Mukes: “Wake him up, Conko!”