small sharp ears erect, his fine intelligent eyes sparkling, his thick
hair as fine and glossy as silk. He leaped into Skeeter’s lap, and
licked a tiny red tongue at Skeeter’s face.
“Look out, Skeeter!” Figger exclaimed, pushing his chair out of the
danger zone. “Ain’t you skeart dat Spit dawg will spit in yo’ face?”
“Naw!” Skeeter replied disgustedly. “Dey jes’ calls him a Spitz dawg
fer a name. Dat’s a manner of speakin’, as it were. Ef you buys a plug
of Bull-dawg chawin’ terbaccer, you don’t especk to git bit, does yer?”
“You shorely muss be stuck on dat new gal ef you totes her dawg on de
street an’ feeds him puffeckly good vittles in de Hen-Scratch saloom,”
Figger replied, ignoring Skeeter’s question.
“I _is_ in love wid dat gal,” Skeeter replied positively. “She’s shore
easy to look at, Figger. An’ she specifies she is _wuth_ one thousan’
dollars.”
“My Lawd!” Figger exclaimed fervently. “I’d be willin’ to tote a whole
litter of Spit dawgs fer her!”
“I wants you to he’p me ketch her, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly.
“I needs about a thousan’ dollars to make some improvements in dis
barroom, an’ escusin’ dat, de gal is plum’ wuth havin’.”
“Am she really got dat many money, or do she jes’ value her carcass at
dat many dollars?” Figger asked suspiciously.
“I dunno,” Skeeter replied doubtfully. “All she said wus dat she wus
_wuth_ one thousan’ dollars.”
“Huh,” Figger grunted skeptically. “She mought be pricin’ herse’f too
high.”
Suddenly the green-baize doors of the saloon were thrust aside, and a
clear voice called:
“Oh, Skeeter! Come out here!”
Skeeter jumped like someone had popped a dynamite cap under his chair,
and hastened out to the front. Figger followed slowly for the purpose
of getting a good look at Skeeter’s new girl.
She was well worth seeing. She was as slim and straight and graceful as
a stalk of sugar-cane; her color was a little darker than Skeeter’s; an
Ethiopian type, with perfect features, a sinewy, cat-like movement of
muscles under satiny skin, easy-smiling lips, which played constantly
over perfectly beautiful teeth, and a speaking voice which any orator
in the world would covet.
“Lawd,” Figger sighed enviously. “She’s wuth de thousan’ dollars, all
right.”
“I wants my dawg, Skeeter,” Tella Tandy said. “I’s gwine down to de
deppo to watch de train come in. Want to come wid me an’ tote de dawg?”
“No’m,” Skeeter answered regretfully, as he snapped his fingers and the
little Spitz leaped under the saloon doors and sprang into his owner’s
arms. “I got to make a livin’ keepin’ bar. I’ll go wid you some yuther
time.”
The woman walked down the street and Skeeter returned to the table
where he had been sitting. He sighed like a furnace and wiped the sweat
from his face.
“Figger,” he said pantingly, “dat gal nearly gibs me de jim-jams eve’y
time I sees her. I loses all de good sense I’m got. I feels like a fool
an’ I acks like a fool, an’ ’pears to me like dat gal is laughin’ at me
all de time.”
“I ’spect so,” Figger said commiseratingly, as he arose to go. “Dem
females is mos’ in gineral laughin’ at us. But dem simpletoms you
announce is shore a bad sign. Mattermony’ll ketch you ef you don’t
watch out. Ef you needs any good advices, I ’speck you better send fer
me.”
Figger sauntered down to the depot, watched the passenger train arrive
and depart, and then hurried back to the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Bad luck, Skeeter!” he howled, as soon as he entered the room. “Dat
Tella Tandy went down to de deppo to meet a man an’ dat man looks like
one of dese here watermillyumaires!”
“Lawdymussy!” Skeeter squeaked, springing to his feet. “I knowed my
luck wus too good to last. Whar is dat new nigger man at?”
“Dey is bofe comin’ up dis way,” Figger informed him. “Dat new man is
packin’ de Spit dawg. I figger de load will break him down about time
he gits to de Hen-Scratch.”
For ten minutes the two sat in gloomy silence. Skeeter lighted
cigarette after cigarette, twiddled his thumbs, jiggered his feet, and
acted generally like a man with the St. Vitus dance. Figger was more
composed. He was thankful that he was merely an innocent bystander. At
last Skeeter sighed:
“Ef I lose dat gal, it’ll bust my heart, Figger. I been courtin’ her
servigerous fer a week. My head is so full of tears now it would take a
week to bail me out!”
Voices were heard at the door and Skeeter arose tremblingly and walked
out. Tella and the strange man were waiting for him.
“Dis is my frein’, Mr. Deo Diddle, Skeeter,” Tella said easily. “I jes’
been tellin’ him how kind you wus to keep my dawg.”
“Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Skeeter mumbled, holding out his hand.
“Same back at you,” Deo replied. Then turning to Tella Tandy, he said:
“Me an’ dis dawg is got a little bizzness wid Mr. Muskeeter Butts,
Tella. You foller yo’ little nose down de street an’ see ef he don’t
lead you somewhar else.”
Skeeter and Deo Diddle entered the saloon and sat down at the table
with Figger Bush. The dog sniffed around the room for a minute and then
passed out toward the rear.
Deo Diddle was about the size of Skeeter Butts, but it required no
expert eyes to see that he was a perfect athlete. The poise of his
head and body, the accuracy and decision of even the slightest move,
the steady, assured gaze of his eyes indicated a man whose muscles
and brain were trained in some field of endeavor which required both
strength and wit.
“At de fust offstartin’, Mr. Butts,” Deo Diddle began easily, “I
announces my bizzness an’ de puppus of my visit to Tickfall: I’s a
Monarch of de Manacle.”
“You’s a--a--_which_?” Skeeter asked, his eyes sticking out like a
bug’s.
“I gibs a show,” Deo Diddle explained. “I lets people handcuff me an’ I
slips ’em off as easy as you kin take off a glove. I lets people nail
me up in a box an’ I gits out as easy as you kin git outen dat chair.
I lets people tie me in bed wid ropes an’ I gits loose as easy as a
pickaninny kin fall outen a hammock. An’ on de side, I tells forchines,
reads minds, finds lost treasures, an’ gives a few sleight-of-han’
tricks.”
“Huh!” Skeeter and Figger grunted in a duet.
“Yes, suh,” Deo Diddle went on. “I done hired dat hall down in de
settlemint called Dirty-Six, an’ I’s gibin’ a show eve’y night fer
three nights. Would you wish to come?”
“I shore would!” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly.
“I’s glad to hear you say dat, suh,” Deo replied. “I’s gwine gib a free
pass to you an’ Mr. Bush, an’ I hopes you will speak up my show fer me.
Admission ten cents fer chillun an’ two-bits fer growed-ups!”
He handed Skeeter and Figger a slip of paper apiece, and rose and
walked out of the saloon, leaving the two men to gaze after him in
speechless astonishment. After a long time, Figger remarked:
“You done got yo’ wuck cut out fer you, Skeeter. You know how batty
female womans is about show folks!”
* * * * *
A show given by negroes will attract other negroes as a barrel of
molasses attracts flies. The little hall in Dirty-Six was filled to its
capacity a long time before the hour of the exhibition.
Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush occupied the front seat directly facing
the center of the stage.
“Whar is Tella Tandy, Figger?” Skeeter asked uneasily, scanning the
faces in the crowd. “I went to her house atter her an’ dey tole me
she’d done went. But I don’t see her.”
“She’ll git here on time,” Figger assured him. “She ain’t hatin’ dis
Deo Diddle none, an’ she’ll watch him pufform.”
Then the ragged curtain parted in the middle, one half being pulled to
each side of the stage.
“Ladies an’ gen’lemans,” Deo Diddle began, “I’s gwine gib a refined
exhibition of sleight-of-hands fust of all, an’ I defy anybody to kotch
me at my tricks.”
The stunts which followed were too simple and commonplace to mention,
but they were wonderful because new to the Tickfall negroes. In a
little while the whole house was vocal with the comments of the
spectators, who made remarks in a loud voice, and sometimes got into an
argument with some friend across the room.
“My Lawd,” Hitch Diamond bellowed, when he saw the performer break an
egg in a pan, scramble it, light an alcohol lamp and cook it, then lift
out of the pan a live goose. “My Lawd, dat pufformance is agin nature!”
“’Tain’t so!” the Reverend Vinegar Atts bawled from the other side of
the house. “De Good Book says us shall see wonders in de heaven above
an’ de yearth beneath----”
“Aw, go up dar wid de buzzards!” Hitch Diamond retorted in a disgusted
tone. “Not even de good Lawd could make a nigger hatch a goose outen a
scrambled hen’s egg!”
In the meantime, Deo Diddle had turned his attention to a stove-pipe
hat belonging to Vinegar Atts, and was winding yard after yard of
colored paper out of the crown, catching it upon a wand.
“Us knowed you never did carry no brains in dat hat, Revun, even when
you had it on yo’ head!” Pap Curtain guffawed.
The spectators were getting their money’s worth when Deo Diddle
suddenly changed the performance.
“Friends,” he announced, “I’s gwine interjuice you to de mos’ wonderful
woman in de worl’. She kin set right here in dis chair an’ tell
you-alls all about yo’se’ves! She don’t know nobody in dis town, but
she is gwine mention names an’ tell secrets out loud whut nobody ain’t
told her but de departed sperits of de yuther land!”
At that moment Tella Tandy walked out upon the stage and sat down.
Skeeter Butts sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation, then sank
back again with a cold sick sensation at the pit of his stomach.
“Dat means I done lost my little she-goddess, Figger,” he sighed
pitifully. “’Tain’t no use to hope no more.”
“Aw, pert up, Skeeter!” his friend urged. “You ain’t drapped de
pertater yit!”
Tella Tandy appeared to be in a trance. She looked with unseeing eyes
over the faces of the crowd, then began in a weak, uncertain voice:
“I ketch de name of Vinegar Atts--I sees a fly--shoo fly!--church.
Revun Atts is ’postlizin’ in de pulpit--de elder is gwine hab trouble
in de cong’gation--he better watch his eye----”
“I ketch de name of Prince Total--Marse Tom am lookin’ fer dat lost
demijahm whut Prince borrered--I ’speck Prince better fotch dat jug
back befo’ he keeps it buried too long by dat pine stump----”
“I ketch de name of Pap Curtain--Pap is a slick-head nigger--a word
from de sperit lan’ tells Pap dat he better ketch de trabbel itch an’
hike--de gram-jury meets nex’ week----”
For twenty minutes this revelation held the audience in tense, dreadful
silence--twenty minutes of frightful retrospection and introspection,
and when a negro’s name was mentioned that darky suffered a nervous
shock from which he did not recover for a week. Even if his name was
not mentioned, the darky was afraid it would be, and was appalled at
what the revelation might be.
At last Tella Tandy rose from the chair, felt her way toward the side
of the stage as if she were blind, rubbed her hands over her dazed
eyes, and exclaimed in a dramatic voice:
“De book of de recordin’ angel is closed, an’ de sperit land reveals no
more!”
“Bless Gawd!” Hitch Diamond bellowed fervently.
Deo Diddle then brought out a cot and set it in the middle of the
stage. He threw down upon the floor a coil of rope many feet in length
and addressed the audience:
“I wants about ten men to come up on dis flatform and tie me to dis
cot. I offers to bet ten dollars I kin git loose in two minutes!”
“I takes dat bet, bully!” Skeeter Butts squealed as he sprang to his
feet and climbed upon the platform.
“Me, too!” came a chorus of voices, and Vinegar Atts, Prince Total, Pap
Curtain, Hitch Diamond, and a number of others who had been accused of
various crimes and misdemeanors by Tella Tandy followed Skeeter to the
stage.
They carefully examined the cot and rope. Then Deo Diddle stretched
himself out upon it, lying flat upon the mattress with his feet
together and his hands down at his sides. Vinegar Atts and Hitch
Diamond passed the rope around and around him, crossing and
crisscrossing it over his feet and body and neck until he was swathed
like a mummy and apparently as helpless.
Then the committee climbed off the platform and left Deo to free
himself in full view of the crowd.
Deo entertained the crowd for a minute by a mighty struggling and
tugging and jerking and grunting, but all the while Deo’s right hand
was resting upon a lateral bar under the cot which held the mattress
taut. At the proper time Deo simply slipped this bar out of its
fastening on one side of the cot; the mattress sagged down in the
middle like a hammock, with the many coils of rope across Deo, but
hardly touching his body.
Then Deo climbed from under the rope as easily as a pig slips through
a gap in the fence and was free!
The shout of applause which greeted this performance almost lifted the
roof, and amid the noise Deo and Tella quickly removed the cot so that
the committee could not examine it again.
“Us will hab a entirely diffunt show tomorrer night, my frien’s,” Deo
announced when the noise and excitement subsided. “I is knowed all
over de worl’ an’ in Yurope as de Monarch of de Manacle. I’s de only
real nigger Handcuff King in dis country. Tomorrer night I’s gwine
hab eve’y kind of handcuff whut is used by de sheriffs an’ policemens
of dis country an’ furin parts, and I’ll let you handcuff me up any
way you please, an’ ef I don’t git loose in five minutes I’ll gib you
twenty-five dollars reward. Fetch all de handcuffs you is got aroun’ de
house an’ watch de Handcuff King pufform!”
“I’ll git dat reward-bill!” Skeeter Butts squealed.
“All right, pardner!” Deo laughed. “Do yo’ durndest! Good-night!”
While the people were leaving Skeeter Butts climbed back upon the stage
and confronted Tella Tandy.
“Is you married to dis Deo Diddle, Tella?” he asked earnestly.
“Suttinly,” Tella laughed. “Ain’t Deo a wonder?”
“Whut you mean by makin’ a fool outen me?” Skeeter demanded.
“Don’t pick no fuss wid me, Skeeter!” Tella said. “Dis is a free
country an’ you made love at me wid yo’ own mind. I couldn’t he’p it ef
you handed me yo’ heart tied up in a paper-sack.”
Skeeter glared at her a moment, then turned and started away.
“I don’t bear you no grudge fer dem lovin’ words, Skeeter,” Tella
snickered.
* * * * *
Skeeter Butts spent a large part of the night in deep meditation.
The next morning all his friends crowded into the Hen-Scratch to
discuss the show. Tella Tandy’s revelations interested them most.
“How come dat purty little coon knowed all about me so good?” Vinegar
Atts wanted to know.
“How did she know dat a gram-jury meetin’ is de real sign fer me to
leave dis town?” Pap Curtain inquired.
“How did she guess dat I swiped Marse Tom Gaitskill’s licker-jug an’
had it hid out ferninst a pine stump?” Prince Total wanted to know.
“I kin answer all dem ’terrogations, niggers,” Skeeter Butts grinned.
“When dat gal fust come to town I didn’t know she wus connected up wid
no show, an’ I didn’t had no idear she wus married, an’ I armed her
aroun’ an’ tried to git her to love me. She axed me about a millyum
questions about you-alls, an’ las’ night when she pulled up dat stunt
she was jes’ repeatin’ over whut I done tole her!”
“My Lawd!” Prince Total exclaimed. “Dat warn’t no fair. I wus mighty
nigh skeart to death.”
“I reckin so,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Yo’ mem’ry ain’t loaded wid
nothin’ but blank ca’tridges ontil people begins to talk about yo’
meanness--den yo’ shore is got plenty ammunition of remembrunce.”
“I hope she ain’t gwine pull no more of dat stuff,” Pap Curtain said
uneasily. “How much did you tell her ’bout me, Skeeter?”
“She’s done turned loose all she knows,” Skeeter replied.
“I hope so,” Pap said menacingly. “Ef she revelates any mo’ about me I
knows a yeller-faced bar-keep’ who is gwine hab his mug pounded into
anodder color.”
“No danger--I ain’t skeart,” Skeeter said with a dry grin. “I realizes
dat wus a mistake.”
There was silence for a few minutes, a drink for the crowd at Skeeter’s
expense, and then Skeeter mentioned a plan he had matured in the night:
“Cain’t us niggers fix up some kind of buzzo on dat gal an’ git even
wid her?” he asked.
“Whut mought dat buzzo be?” Vinegar Atts inquired.
“Well, suh, I figgers it out dis way: Dat Deo Diddle is offered a
reward fer any handcuffs he can’t git out of. Now ef Sheriff Marse John
Flournoy would only loan us some handcuffs----”
“Listen to dat nigger’s brains a-poppin’!” Prince Total exclaimed in
extreme admiration. “Fer mussy sake, Skeeter, go see Marse John right
now. I’ll keep dis saloom.”
The crowd sat down to wait while Skeeter hastened to the courthouse,
entered the sheriff’s office, and stood, hat in hand, grinning at Mr.
John Flournoy.
“Come in, Skeeter,” Flournoy said. “I won’t lend any money, won’t hear
any nigger love scrapes, won’t give any advice, won’t listen to any of
your troubles. Excusing all those things, what else do you want?”
Skeeter grinned. As he would have expressed it, Marse John was his
“kinnery.” He had grown up in a cabin in the sheriff’s yard, and this
big-bodied, kind-hearted sheriff held few terrors for Skeeter.
“Dar, now, Marse John, you’ll shore hab room fer a good appetite atter
you is got all dem words offen yo’ stomick. I come to git a view from
you about how to colleck a twenty-five dollars reward-bill.”
“That’s interesting,” Flournoy grinned. “Let’s have the details.”
“Well, suh, a nigger is habin’ a show in dis town an’ he calls hisse’f
a Handcuff King. He specify dat he’s a Monarch of de Manacle. He argufy
dat dar ain’t no kind of handcuff made dat he can’t git hisse’f loose
from in less’n five minutes. Does you reckin dat is so, Marse John?”
“Certainly,” the sheriff answered promptly.
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
This was one theme upon which the sheriff was competent to speak. He
leaned back in his chair, lighted a cigar, and began:
“There are one hundred and forty-two varieties of handcuffs and
leg-irons manufactured in the civilized world, Skeeter, but there
are only thirty-two separate brands which are registered for use by
officers of the law in the United States. Four master keys will unlock
all thirty-two of these leg-irons and handcuffs.”
“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed.
“I venture to say that that negro showman has all the regulation
handcuffs in use in this country, as well as some of European
manufacture. Of course, he also has the keys to unlock them.”
“Whar do he tote de keys?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“Oh--everywhere!” Flournoy smiled. “In the lining of his clothes, in
his shoes and socks, in his sleeves and cuffs, down his collar, even in
his mouth--everywhere!”
“Huh!” Skeeter grunted. “Dat’s too bad.”
There was a long silence while Flournoy smilingly watched Skeeter
think. The negro’s face was a pantomime of conflicting emotions, and
the general effect made for gloom and depression. Finally Flournoy
spoke:
“My information seems to discourage you, Skeeter. What’s the problem?”
“It’s dis way, Marse John,” Skeeter said earnestly. “Dat uppity,
biggity nigger is done offered twenty-five dollars reward fer any
handcuff he cain’t git off in five minutes, an’ I figgered dat I had a
show to make de money.”
Flournoy thought a moment, then broke into a loud chuckle.
“I think you have a splendid chance to copper the coin, Skeeter. Wait
here a minute!”
Flournoy opened a steel door, walked to the rear of the vault, and
pawed over a lot of trash in one corner. Then he came out and tossed a
handful of police hardware on the floor at Skeeter’s feet.
“I think they will hold him,” Flournoy laughed.
Skeeter gasped as he eyed the cruelest collection of manacles and
shackles he had ever seen.
There was a pair of home-made wrought-iron handcuffs with a stiff iron
bar a foot long to connect the bracelets instead of a chain. There was
a pair of cumbersome leg-irons which were used a half century ago in
Southern convict camps, but whose use is now prohibited. And there was
something else which gave Skeeter a sinking sensation at the pit of his
stomach merely to look at. It was a pair of trigger cuffs. Any attempt
to loosen them by the wearer has the effect of tightening the bracelets
while at the same time a needle trigger presses deeper and deeper into
the flesh of the wrist until the captive is helpless with pain.
“When I was first elected sheriff, forty years ago, this stuff was in
use, Skeeter. I won’t give you the keys to these manacles. If you get
them on that coon he’ll certainly need me! You can telephone me at the
house to-night after Deo the Diddle forks over that twenty-five plunks
to you!”
Skeeter wrapped the hardware in a newspaper and trod on air as he
walked back to the Hen-Scratch saloon. When he told the waiting crowd
of his success and showed them the manacles the darkies had a jubilee
and then waited with the impatience of children for the night to come.
The front row of seats was occupied that night by Skeeter Butts, Figger
Bush, Vinegar Atts, Pap Curtain, Prince Total, Hitch Diamond, and a few
others of that type who were smarting under the public revelations of
the recording angel the night before.
The house was crowded to suffocation and the performance consisted of
fortune-telling, feats of magic, singing, and dancing.
At last the time came for the Monarch of the Manacle to make good his
boast that he could get out of any handcuff or leg-iron which the
community could provide for his bonds.
Up to this time Deo had found it perfectly safe everywhere to offer to
release himself from any handcuffs which the negroes could provide,
for a handcuff was something which no negro possessed, and with all
their barbaric love of jewelry it was an ornament which no darky cared
to wear. When no manacles were supplied by the audience, Deo would
then invite a committee to come upon the stage and examine his. He
would present forty different kinds for their inspection and let them
choose any sort to place upon his legs and wrists. As they were all
familiar to Deo, well oiled and in good condition, he had no trouble in
releasing himself.
But this time Deo Diddle was up against it!
Skeeter Butts was Sheriff John Flournoy’s “nigger.” And for that reason
he was probably the only colored person in the South who could go to a
sheriff and get the assortment of manacles which he now had wrapped in
a newspaper and hidden under his seat.
When Deo invited a local committee to come upon the stage, asking for
anyone who would volunteer, every occupant of the first row of seats
sprang to his feet and started for the platform.
This prompt and concerted action told Deo Diddle that he was in danger,
that the men were out for his blood. He was frightened, and although he
tried to carry himself with an easy manner it was apparent to all the
committee that he was anxious and distrait.
Deo promptly decided not to ask for any handcuffs to be provided by the
people in the assembly. To cover his retreat he began his announcement
of the next evening’s performance:
“Dis is de las’ stunt on our plogram to-night, but tomorrer we is gwine
hab de biggest show of all. I’ll ax a cormittee to nail me up in a box
atter dey has handcuffed me, an’ I’ll let ’em tie de box up wid a rope,
an’ I’ll promise to git out in five minutes!”
Then for twenty minutes Deo entertained the audience by escaping from
his own leg-irons and handcuffs. The negroes devised every sort of
method to manacle his legs and wrists, but when the curtain of the
little booth which was rigged upon the stage had been pulled together
in half a minute or a minute Deo walked out a free man!
Then Skeeter Butts unwrapped his newspaper and tossed his assortment of
police hardware at the feet of Deo Diddle!
Deo looked down at that appalling mass of wrought iron and steel and
shuddered. He had never seen anything like them before. His heart stood
still and his breath stopped. Then he laughed, a nervous, cackling,
uneasy laugh, merely to gain time to think.
He picked up the three dreadful instruments and held them before the
audience--the wrought-iron bracelets with the lateral bar--old, rusty,
out of date, the keyhole filled with rust and dirt; the horrible
leg-irons which a man could not escape from in half a day with the
use of a sharp file, and the cruel trigger cuffs with their torturing
needle. He described each fetter minutely, explained how it was made,
told how quickly and easily he expected to escape from its bonds, all
the time praying desperately for some way of escape from his awful
predicament.