Skeeter grinned triumphantly into her face, then gave his entire
attention to the spiel of Deo Diddle. Several times Tella spoke to
Skeeter, but he answered in gruff tones and finally told her to shut up.
Then Deo did something which made Skeeter’s jaw drop with despair--he
closed each of the gaping manacles with a loud snap!
And Skeeter did not have a key to open them again!
Then Tella Tandy did a most astounding thing--she sprang to her feet
with a loud, shrill scream!
Everybody turned and looked at her with astonishment--Skeeter Butts
most astonished of all.
“Whut you mean by sayin’ dat to me, Skeeter Butts?” she whooped. “You
is a low-down nigger to insult a lady like dat! Oh, my Gawd!”
Tella put her hands over her face and staggered from the stage, crying
aloud like a baby.
Skeeter Butt’s jaw dropped down and he gaped like an idiot--he had not
said a word or done a thing!
He was so startled by the woman’s accusation and her dramatic exit that
when he tried to speak and deny his guilt he stammered and spluttered
and looked guiltier than ever.
“Whut you mean by insultin’ my wife, you low-down animated outrage?”
Deo Diddle howled, approaching Skeeter with blood in his eye.
“I--I--didn’t--say--nothin’!” Skeeter stammered.
“Kill him! Put him out! Bust him one in de jaw!” the men in the
audience roared, as they listened to the heart-rending wails of the
caterwauling Tella Tandy somewhere in the wings.
Deo Diddle’s fist lunged out with all his strength behind it. Skeeter
ducked, dodged under the showman’s arms, grabbed up Sheriff Flournoy’s
criminal hardware, and fled for his life.
* * * * *
The next morning Skeeter was kept busy explaining to his many patrons
that he had been guilty of no offense and that Tella Tandy had played a
trick on him to keep him from winning the twenty-five dollars.
To Skeeter’s surprise, nobody believed him.
“Naw, suh,” the reverend Vinegar Atts proclaimed, “you muss hab said
somepin shameful to dat little gal. She wusn’t show-actin’ when she
bust out cryin’ like dat.”
“Dat’s de way I figger,” Hitch Diamond growled. “Ef you wus a’
innercent man, how come you didn’t stan’ yo’ ground’ an’ fight when dat
Deo wus fixin’ to pound yo’ face in?”
“I ain’t no fightin’ man,” Skeeter protested. “I’s a bizzness man. But
I didn’t say nothin’ an’ I didn’t do nothin’--I wus discriminated agin
by dem show folks!”
“Aw, hush!” Pap Curtain exclaimed disgustedly. “I heerd whut you said
to dat little gal an’ it wus plum’ insultin’.”
“You better fetch dem same handcuffs back tonight, Skeeter,” Prince
Total grinned. “Yo’ bes’ chance to insult dat lady is atter we nail Deo
up in dat box.”
“Aw, shut up!” Skeeter snapped.
The men gradually talked themselves out and went away. Skeeter turned
to his one friend and sympathizer, Figger Bush.
“Figger,” he said, “I’s gwine git even wid dat pair of crooks or die.
Is you willin’ to he’p me?”
“Suttinly,” Figger agreed eagerly. “I think dem show folks done you
powerful bad.”
“We begins right now,” Skeeter announced, as he got up and went back to
a rear room and came out with Tella’s Spitz dog.
“Come out in front wid me, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he led the dog out
of the door and stopped in the middle of the cinder sidewalk. “I want
you to hold dis dawg for me.”
“Whut you gwine do?” Figger inquired.
“I’s gwine git back about fawty feet, take a little run, an’ kick dis
dang dawg so fur dat de nex’ time he spits it’ll be in Arkansas!”
Skeeter announced viciously.
“I’s wid you!” Figger chuckled, as he spraddled his legs and grasped
the Pomeranian by his bushy, silky tail. “Kick de goal!”
Skeeter made a little run and almost kicked a hole in the sky. His
right foot went up like he had hitched it to a star. For the little dog
squatted and Skeeter missed him!
Then the dog got busy.
He snapped at Figger and Figger let go his tail. He sunk his sharp
little teeth in the seat of Skeeter’s pantaloons and Skeeter went down
the street at full speed, exhausting the treasuries of his throat
to vocalize his fright. The dog held on until the seat of Skeeter’s
trousers parted company with the rest of the garment and came away.
Then the dog, well satisfied, trotted happily down the street, growling
ferociously and stopping at intervals to shake the everlasting stuffing
out of the piece of cloth which he had captured.
Figger Bush lay flat down upon the ground and whooped with laughter
until the town reverberated with the echo of his hilarity like a pack
of hounds chasing a fox. When he saw Skeeter returning, he decided it
would be safer to go down town and see what time it was. So he went.
But in less than an hour Figger returned in great excitement, bringing
with him a little, timid negro woman with a tiny baby upon her arm.
He led her through the saloon to a rear room, motioning mysteriously to
Skeeter as he passed. When they were all seated at a table Figger said:
“Now, Mrs. Diddle, you tell dat tale whut you jes’ told me--dis man who
wants to listen is Skeeter Butts.”
The woman hesitated a moment, looked down fondly at the tiny bundle on
her breast, and began to speak in a trembling, uneasy voice:
“I come up here huntin’ fer a nigger named Deo Diddle. He’s my
cote-house husbund. Dis is his little pickaninny chile I’s nursin’.
Deo, he gibs shows, but he’s got kinder keerless an’ done fergot all
about me, I reckin. So I come to rattle up his remembrunce.”
“Yes’m,” Skeeter exclaimed with unction. “Dat wus de most properest
thing you could do. I’s shore glad you foun’ me so prompt, fer I’s jes’
de man to lead you straight on to Deo Diddle.”
“Dat’s fine,” the woman exclaimed, rising eagerly to her feet. “I hopes
you’ll take me dar right now.”
“No’m,” Skeeter declared. “It cain’t be did suddent like dat. I don’t
know whar dat nigger is now, but he’s gwine gib a show in dis town
to-night, an’ I’ll take good keer of you an’ dat baby an’ den lead you
to de show. Dat is, ef you’ll do jes’ whut I tells you.”
[Illustration:
Drawn by E. W. Kemble.
Skeeter went down the street at full speed.]
“I shore will,” the woman said fervently.
“Figger,” Skeeter commanded, “you take sister Diddle over to de
Halfacre an’ tell ole sister Ginny Chew to keep her till I come atter
her to-night. Den you come right back to dis saloom, an’ you an’ me
will fix up our plans fer de evenin’ pufformance.”
The day passed slowly for Skeeter Butts, and when the night came he
occupied a seat in the front row in the hall directly in the center of
the stage, with Figger Bush sitting beside him.
None of the performance interested Skeeter until Deo Diddle announced
that he was now ready to accomplish the “box escape.” He challenged the
negroes to provide a pine box in which he would be securely nailed and
roped up, first being handcuffed and shackled in any way the negroes
chose. Then he proposed to escape, leaving the box and the ropes intact.
When the committee climbed upon the stage, Skeeter did not join them.
He handed a tiny vial of liquid to Figger Bush and said:
“Now, Figger, you go up dar an’ do exackly whut I told you!”
Deo Diddle was carefully handcuffed, manacled, chained, and bound by
the grinning, laughing negroes; then he was lifted up and lowered
carefully into the box.
Figger Bush reached for a hammer, and Tella Tandy stood by with a cigar
box full of long wire nails, handing them to Figger as he nailed Deo in
the box. Then Tella produced a long rope, and the husky negroes bound
that box as a trunk is wrapped for a journey. When all were satisfied
they stepped back, but Figger returned for a moment and made another
careful examination of the box and the ropes.
Finally the curtains were drawn around the little booth and the crowd
waited breathlessly.
Skeeter Butts arose and hastily departed from the hall.
Two things had happened to Deo Diddle which were sure to cause him
trouble, and Deo found it out instantly.
First, Figger Bush had nailed Deo’s coat-tail to the top of the box.
And second, when Figger went back to examine the box a second time he
had emptied a small bottle of formaldehyde into one of the air-holes!
If there is one chemical fluid with which the inhabitants of Louisiana,
white and black, are familiar, it is that colorless, volatile liquid,
chemically intermediate between methyl alcohol and formic acid,
called formaldehyde. It has an odor which suggests all the dead and
decaying things of earth, animal and vegetable, all the putrefaction
and corruption imaginable. When a man gets a whiff of it for the first
time, he kneels down right there and prays to die--he doesn’t want
to live another second with that stench in his nostrils. It is the
supreme germicide and disinfectant of every yellow-fever epidemic,
which accounts for Louisiana’s close and intimate acquaintance with it.
Any self-respecting yellow-fever germ will instantly tuck his tail and
scoot when he gets a good smell of that gosh-awful disinfectant.
But formaldehyde was a preparation with which Deo Diddle was not
acquainted.
Figger Bush, listening intently, heard sounds which resembled those
made by a dog having a fit in a cigar box and knocking his feet
against the box on all sides. Then Figger heard a loud panting like a
worn-out engine pulling a grade with a log-train. After that, a moan,
which deepened into a hoarse cry; then Deo Diddle lost hold of himself
completely and began a hideous sort of sharp yelping like a dog.
“Hel-lup! Hel-lup! Fer Gawd’s sake----” he screamed.
But long before this Tella Tandy had torn the curtains aside and was
fighting the box with her hands, trying to let in the air.
Skeeter Butts, standing by the door at the side entrance with Mrs.
Deo Diddle and the baby, heard the excitement and the screaming, and
grinned with delight.
“Come on, sister Diddle,” Skeeter exclaimed exultantly. “I’ll show you
yo’ kind, good husbunt now. Us is got him in a box!”
He led her through the side entrance to the stage just as Vinegar Atts
struck the pine box a heavy blow with the ax, cut the ropes, knocked
off the top, and lifted the half-unconscious, and wholly terrified
Handcuff King out of the box, his coat-tail nailed securely, his hands
and ankles still manacled, and the bottom of the box containing dozens
of keys which Deo had dropped in his eagerness and haste to escape!
In the meantime, the entire audience had taken its departure. Even
Vinegar Atts left after he released the formaldehyde with the magician.
There was no attraction on the stage which could enable them to endure
that dreadful odor. Figger Bush lingered around the front door,
sticking his head out at intervals to get a breath of pure air.
“Dat’s him!” Skeeter exclaimed dramatically, as he pointed to the
drooping form of Deo Diddle, who was rapidly reviving, although he
still hung to the shattered box by his coat-tail. “Dat’s de villyum
whut is done run off from his wife an’ chile an’ tuck up wid anodder
woman!”
“Who--_him!_” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed, pointing to the performer.
“Huh--dat ain’t my husbant--his name is Jim Tom Wyatt!”
Then she turned and faced the frightened Tella Tandy.
“Hello, Tella!” she exclaimed. “Whar is Deo?”
“He got drunk in Kerlerac an’ fit a white man to a shirt-tail finish
an’ de jedge put him in jail fer fawty days,” Tella explained. “Me an’
Jim Tom is tryin’ to carry on de show till Deo gits out, an’, of co’se,
Jim Tom is usin’ Deo’s name.”
“Dar now, Skeeter Butts!” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed. “Whut you lie to me
fer?”
“Did dat little yeller debbil hab anything to do wid dis?” Tella asked,
pointing at Skeeter’s face.
“Of co’se he did!” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed. “He done it all!”
Tella Tandy promptly wrenched off a piece of the shattered box about
two feet long and three inches wide, and gave Skeeter a resounding slap
across the jaw.
Skeeter reeled backward, stumbled down the steps, and fled out into the
street.
Figger watched the people on the stage for a minute, then hastened down
the street after Skeeter. He found his friend sitting on a curb-stone
nursing a bloody face.
“Dey done me up, Figger,” Skeeter mourned. “I never seed de beat of
show-folks fer fust-rate brains. Even dat Spit dawg is smarter dan me!”
“Whut is us gwine do nex’, Skeeter?” Bush asked sympathetically.
“I’s gwine to de cote-house an’ hab dat Tella Tandy arrested fer
assault an’ battery!” Skeeter exclaimed revengefully.
Figger sighed pitifully.
“’Twon’t do you no good, Skeeter,” Figger informed him. “You can’t git
her fer nothin’ but assault.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked.
“Atter she hit you dat whale across de face,” Figger explained, “I saw
her take de ax an’ chop dat battery all to little pieces!”
All is Fair.
I
THE HORSE RACE.
Shin Bone needed money badly. He sat on the edge of the sidewalk by the
old cotton shed, his feet in the gutter and his head resting upon his
hands, and did the heaviest thinking of his whole thoughtless life.
“I’d rob Marse Tom’s bank ef I jes’ knowed how,” he said, speaking
aloud to himself.
Then he wondered if he had spoken too loud, for Colonel Tom Gaitskill
stopped directly behind him in his walk to the bank, and surveyed with
amusement a number of gaudy lithographs which had been pasted upon the
side of the cotton shed.
Shin Bone sat perfectly quiet until he had assured himself that
Gaitskill had not overheard him, then a shrewd look came into his eyes,
and he rose to his feet. Taking a corn-cob pipe from his pocket, he
filled it with tobacco, and edged up closer to the white man.
“When is de succus gwine be, Marse Tom?” he asked, as he struck a
match and applied the flame to the bowl of his pipe.
“This is no circus, Shin,” Gaitskill said shortly. “Where have you been
all the time? Haven’t you heard anything about the nigger uplift?”
Every negro knows the advantage which accrues to himself from letting
the white man tell him. Carefully concealing the fact that these same
gaudy lithographs had caused his grief over his poverty, Shin said:
“Naw, suh--yes, suh. De white folks is always doin’ somepin to us
niggers. But I cain’t figger out dese shiny new bills on dis wall.”
“Those lithographs announce a negro fair at the old race track,”
Colonel Gaitskill told him. “There will be prizes for all kinds of
garden truck and field crops, prizes for chickens, pigs, and cattle,
prizes for draft horses, carriage horses, and all kinds of horses.
Admission is free for all the negroes, all the exhibits will be by the
negroes, and the white folks are financing the fair for the benefit of
the negroes.”
“Dat shore will be a lift-up,” Shin Bone grinned, as he gazed with
admiration at the pictures of the running horses. “Does us be allowed
to had races, too?”
“Yes, there’ll be speed exhibits,” Gaitskill smiled. “But every negro
who enters a horse for a race must own the horse.”
“Dat’s right,” Shin Bone agreed heartily. “Ef dat’s de rule, de niggers
cain’t borry no real race hosses an’ git all our money away from us.”
“Betting will not be permitted,” Gaitskill remarked, watching Shin Bone
closely. “That is against the law.”
“Huh,” Shin Bone grunted, and the tone of his voice and the expression
on his face were those of a baby just tuning up to cry. But Gaitskill
checked the deluge of tears by his next remark:
“Of course, the chief characteristic of the sport of kings must not be
allowed to die out entirely, and if a few bets are made on the quiet,
it is nobody’s business. I am sure every darky will put down a dollar
or two just to try his luck.”
“Huh,” Shin Bone grunted, and this time the tone of his voice and the
expression on his face set Gaitskill to laughing merrily.
“Dat’s de only spote whut will fetch de niggers to even a free fair,
Marse Tom. Dey ain’t comin’ here jes’ to show deir spindle-laig
chickens an’ deir little runt pigs. Dey wants to action aroun’ wid de
ponies.”
“I think you’re right, Shin,” Gaitskill grinned. “I’ve been going to
fairs ever since I was old enough to stand on the seat and yell, but I
never could get up any interest or enthusiasm for anything except the
slim horses which galloped swiftly around the circular track.”
“Ain’t you spoke de jaw-breakin’ truth!” Shin Bone applauded. “Eve’y
nigger whut comes to dis fair will hab his cotton-fiel’ pet bang-tailed
an’ trained fer de races! Marse Tom, ain’t you got no cheap,
spry-legged hoss you wants to sell me?”
“No!” Gaitskill walked on.
“Whut ’bout dat pie-faced sorrel, Kunnel?” Shin persisted, following a
few steps behind.
“How many races do you think you could win with a horse which had been
bitten on the leg by a swamp rattlesnake?” Gaitskill asked disgustedly.
“Not such a many,” Shin remarked, in a disappointed tone. “Of co’se,
dat leg mought git well----”
“The horse is ruined, Shin,” Gaitskill told him. “That leg will always
be stiff.”
Shin Bone stopped, watched the colonel until he turned the corner, then
he returned to the gaudy lithographs and resumed his former position on
the curb, dropping down in an attitude of dejection and deep meditation.
“Marse Tom oughter had sold me dat hoss,” he sighed. “My credick wid
him oughter be good. He knows I had plenty money in his bank las’ mont’
an’ drawed it all out to buy dat eatin’-house. Of co’se, I couldn’t
win nothin’ wid dat cripple hoss, but I might could swap him off fer
somepin dat I _could_ win wid.”
Shin Bone refilled his pipe, dug his heels deeper in the soft loam of
the gutter, rubbed his chin reflectively, and gazed across the street
with troubled, brooding eyes.
“Dat little gal got me in dis jam,” he announced finally.
Of course there was a girl in it.
After meeting her, Shin Bone bought a new suit of clothes, a cake of
sweet-scented soap, three white shirts, and a bankrupt restaurant,
fondly hoping that personal cleanliness, personal adornment, and the
ownership of property would help him persuade the girl to make up her
mind to live with him. But alas, the four hundred dollars which he had
in the bank were spent before he got started, and now the fair was on
with a chance to make big winnings, and Shin Bone was broke!
“Jes’ when I wus gittin’ ready to ax her, I went bust,” Shin groaned.
“Jes’ when she done got her mind encouraged up to take me, my little
dab of money gib out.”
Yes, Shin needed money.
He began to search his clothes for money, feeling in every pocket. He
brought forth one silver dollar and one copper cent.
“I didn’t make no new discovery,” he lamented, as he surveyed his
earthly fortune. “I knowed I had dis money already.”
He placed the dollar on the curb beside him and laid the copper cent on
top of the silver coin, surveying them disconsolately. Glancing down at
his feet, he observed a tiny red earthworm crawling in the loam of the
gutter. He picked this up and laid it on top of the copper coin, thus
making a pyramid of his fortune.
“Huh,” he grunted, “I’d rather be a fishin’ worm dan a nigger wid one
dollar an’ one cent.”
Suddenly he looked at the fishing worm with a new interest. It was
twisting and turning upon the copper coin evidently wishing to get off,
but every time it touched the silver dollar it retreated to the copper
coin again.
[Illustration:
Drawn by E. W. Kemble.
The pie-faced sorrel with the snake-bitten leg.]
“Dis worm ’pears like it’s skeart of dis dollar,” Shin muttered.
He flicked the worm into the grass with his finger nail, slipped his
two coins in the upper breast pocket of his coat, then arose and walked
slowly up the street.
At the nearest corner he met Whiffle Boone, dressed like a sun-burst,
and on her way to the fair.
“You ain’t lookin’ so powerful peart, Shinny,” she said.
“Ef I looks like I feels, you better git de sheriff to put me in a
cage,” was Shin’s reply.
“Whut ails you?” the girl inquired solicitously.
“Ef I wus to tell you whut ails me, you’d snicker right in my face,”
Shin Bone declared irritably. “An’ ef you did, I’d shore spile all de
nice clothes you is got on.”
The girl sniffed and passed on.
“Dar now,” Shin lamented. “I didn’t aim to start nothin’ wid Whiffle.
Dis is shore my onforchnit day.”
But a moment later Shin forgot all his troubles.
Pap Curtain met him and shook hands with great cordiality. Pap’s yellow
face was a glowing golden color from excitement, his shifty eyes were
more uncertain than ever, and his sneering mouth had a still uglier
twist.
“Whut you bettin’ on to-day, Shin?” he whispered hoarsely.
“I’s collectin’ tips, Pap,” Shin replied.
“I got a shore thing, Shin,” Pap whispered. “Three hosses starts in de
fourth race. Put yo’ bet on Skipper.”
“I shore thank you fer dem few kind words, Pap,” Shin declared with
delight. “How come yo’ heart busted open so free?”
“Ain’t you figgerin’ on gittin’ married to my sister’s child?” Pap
asked.
“Suttinly.”
“Well, suh, dat’s de reason. But fer Gawd’s sake, keep de secret in de
fambly!”
II
SKIPPER’S FORM.
“Dat shore he’ps me a lot,” Shin exulted, as he started rapidly down
the street. “All I’m got to do is to bet on dat hoss fer a winner.”
Then his rapid gait suddenly ceased, his knees wabbled weakly, and he
leaned against a convenient picket fence.
“O Lawd,” he groaned. “Dat jes’ makes my sorrer cut mo’ deeper. I ain’t
got no mo’ money to bet wid now dan I had befo’ I got dat tip!”
Sadly he turned his back to the fair and walked in the opposite
direction, mumbling to himself.
“Dat’s always my luck,” he mourned. “Ef it rains soup my plate is
turned upside down, an’ ef gold dollars draps down from de sky, I’m
shore to be locked up in jail.”
He passed along the ever-lengthening stream of negroes going to the
races.
“Look at Shinny goin’ back to dig up some mo’ of his buried money,” was
the common greeting of every group of friends he met. “Somebody is been
talkin’ to Shin about some hoss, an’ tellin’ ain’t no fair!”
Shin scanned every face as a panhandler watches the crowd on the street
looking for some easy mark from whom he can extract a “temporary”
loan, but there was no face which indicated that the owner was willing
to part with even a little of his money in behalf of an impecunious
friend. Each one would have promised him all he wanted--after the races.
At last Shin met the Rev. Vinegar Atts.
“Elder,” he began, “I think I done got a tail-holt on somepin’ mighty
good an’ I been lookin’ fer you.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s right, son,” Vinegar boomed. “Of co’se, I ain’t no
gamblin’ man myse’f, an’ don’t b’lieve in it, but I likes to hear tips
so I kin know whut hoss to watch.”
“Is you got any change on you, elder?” Shin asked eagerly.
“A few, a measly few!” Vinegar rumbled. “Whut hoss did you say?”
“I ain’t say,” Shin replied.
“Why don’t you bawl out?” Vinegar bellowed. “I cain’t stand here on my
foots all day! Git yo’ mouf gwine!”
“You an’ me oughter make a trade, elder,” Shin said. “I got de idear
an’ you is got de chink. You gimme all de money you is got, an’ I’ll
’tend to dat part of it while you watches de hosses gallop.”
“I’s skeart you’ll lose my dollars,” Vinegar said uneasily, fumbling
the change in his voluminous pockets. “Mebbe you better tell me fust
whut kind of tip you is got.”
“Pap Curtain tole me to bet on Skipper in de fourth race,” Shin said
earnestly. “Don’t you think dat is a good tip?”
Vinegar turned and walked away a few steps, then turned and walked
back. His hands were thrust deep into his trouser pockets and his chin
was sunk down upon his breast.
“Naw, dat ain’t no good tip a-tall!” he exploded. “Pap Curtain is a
slick-head nigger, as full of tricks as a monkey wid a tin tail. I
don’t hab no trust in him no-time, no-whar, no-how! You better gib dat
Skipper de go-by.”
“Pap ain’t tryin’ to fool me, Vinegar,” Shin Bone protested. “I’s gwine
marry his sister’s onlies’ chile, an’ so me an’ him is in de same
fambly. Excusin’ dat, dis Skipper hoss b’longs to my gal’s maw. Dat
proves he ain’t tryin’ to rob me.”
“You ain’t on to Pap Curtain’s curves yit, Shin,” Vinegar told him.
“Pap would steal de gold outen his granmaw’s jaw toofs, ef de ole woman
had any toofs in her gums. Excusin’ dat, Pap don’t expeck you to lose
no money. He knows you ain’t got none.”
“Dat’s a fack,” Shin admitted.
“He knowed you would git active an’ succulate de tip, “Vinegar told
him. “He knowed you’d git aroun’ an’ try to borrer some money, an’ tell
all de niggers you touched fer a few change whut hoss to bet on, an’ he
knowed dat eve’y nigger in Tickfall would fall fer de losin’ hoss. I
bet Pap’s got all his money on de yuther hoss right dis minute!”
“I don’t b’lieve Pap would treat me dat way, Vinegar,” Shin insisted.
“He tole me not to tell nobody, because he wanted to keep de secret in
de fambly.”
“Did he know you wus broke?” Vinegar asked.
“Yep. I tried to borrer some money from him dis mawnin’.”