on de Tickfall team to bet all de money dey had.”
“Dat ain’t good bizziness,” Hitch declared. “Ef players bets deir own
dollars an’ de team is losin’, dey all gits rattled.”
“Mebbe so, wid white folks,” Skeeter replied. “But ’tain’t so wid
niggers. You know how niggers is--ef dey think de yuther man is gwine
lose money on deir wuck, dey don’t pay no mind, an’ de Lawd’s will kin
be did. But ef a nigger figgers dat he’s gwine lose money on his own
se’f--Lawdy, he shore do scratch gravel!”
Their conversation was brought to a close by a long blast upon a
fox-horn.
“Dat means de picnic dinner is sot,” Skeeter interpreted. “Us better
hurry or all dem yuther niggers will wollop up de grub.”
As they took their places at the long table where the food was piled up
in an appalling and unappetizing mass, Vinegar Atts bellowed:
“Who is de she-queen you is armin’ aroun’, Skeeter?”
“Dis here is my gwine-be wife,” Skeeter grinned. “Her name’s Coco.”
“It’s ’bout time you wus gittin’ married an’ sottled down,” Rev.
Vinegar Atts proclaimed, scenting a wedding fee. “Den you’ll be king
of de coconut tree. Ef you puts off gettin’ married too long, you gits
outen de habit of wantin’ to be.”
“Me an’ Coco is got de same mind now,” Skeeter snickered, proud of the
attention they were attracting. “Coco is de mascop at de ball game dis
afternoon.”
At the far end of the table the manager of the Sawtown team heard this
last remark and uttered an exclamation. Stepping over to one of his
players he asked:
“Buff’lo, how come us fergot to fetch a mascop along wid us?”
“Dunno, cap,” Buffalo replied. “I got my rabbit’s foot.”
“Dem Tickfall coons is got a woman fer a mascop,” the manager said.
“An dey got Figger Bush fer a pitcher, an’ Prince Total ketches. Dat
powerful arrangement shore looks bad to me.”
“Why don’t us hoodoo Figger?” Buffalo inquired.
“How is dat did?” Manager Star asked eagerly.
“Make a cross on Figger’s head wid a rabbit foot,” Buffalo informed him.
“Dat’s easy,” Star grinned. “Gimme yo’ foot, Buff’lo.”
Ten minutes later the Sawtown manager sidled up to Figger Bush and
remarked:
“You gotter pitch hard dis atternoon, Figger. I thinks you needs some
nourishment. I gives you dis big, yeller awange as a peace-off’rin’.”
As Figger, grinning, reached out for the orange, Star let it fall from
his hand and roll under the table. Figger went down on his hands and
knees, crawled under the table for his gift, and when he came out felt
some sharp object scraped across his woolly scalp. When he stood up he
beheld Manager Star grinning at him, holding up a mangy rabbit foot.
“Sawtown wins de game to-day, Figger,” Star snickered. “I done cross
yo’ head wid a rabbit foot, an’ luck ain’t wid yo’ no mo’.”
Figger Bush turned almost white.
As Star walked away, Figger turned every pocket in his clothes wrong
side out, found every cent of money he had in his possession, and
crammed it into his mouth. Stooping down, he made a cross in the sand
with his middle finger, drew a large ring around the cross, and dropped
the money out of his mouth into the center of the ring. Then from under
each coin he gathered a tiny pinch of dirt, placed it in the palm of
his left hand, turned around three times with his eyes closed, and
tossed the grains of dirt over his head.
Thus he hoped to break the hoodoo. But uneasiness filled his soul.
“My Gawd,” he sighed. “I shore feels powerful bad.”
* * * * *
At two o’clock that afternoon four hundred negroes stood around the
baseball diamond and cheered the Tickfall team as they went to the
field and the Sawtown visitors went to bat.
Figger Bush, the famous Tickfall pitcher, rubbed his hands with dirt,
tightened his belt, took a chew of tobacco, waved one foot in the air,
and pitched his first ball. Kerplunk! It landed in the stomach of the
Sawtown batter, doubled him up, and dropped him in a heap on top of the
plate.
Two delighted, grinning, Sawtown teammates caught the injured man by
the arms, lifted him, and escorted him to first base, enlivening their
progress down the line by directing to Figger Bush certain remarks
which were calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the minimum.
The second batter hit the first ball, sent it far over in the high
weeds back of center field; then he and the injured teammate loped
leisurely into home.
“Git yo’ eye steady, Figger!” Butts squealed. “Don’t let ’em rattle you
up!”
“Figger, Figger, he’s de nigger!” the Sawtown men bawled. “We done got
dat nigger’s figger!”
Once more Bush wound up to pitch the ball, but the moment he brought
his arm back for the whiplike throw, the ball slipped out of his
fingers, rolled weakly across the diamond, and was retrieved by the
third-baseman.
Every member of the Sawtown team sprang into the air, emitted ecstatic
whoops, and plastered the helpless Figger with every name in their
vocabulary which they thought would stick.
When Bush finally threw the ball it went over the plate ten feet in the
air, and a giggling batboy chased it until it struck against a stump on
the edge of the bayou and stopped.
“Oh, Figger!” Skeeter screamed, with a sob in his voice. “Whut’s de
matter, pardner? Whut ails ye? I got my dollars on ye, Figger; buck up,
fer Gawd’s sake----”
Bush’s answer was a pitched ball which struck the ground three feet in
front of the plate, bounced waist-high to the batter, and was slugged
far over in the left field, where it fell in a slough, and the fielder
had to wade in the muck to his knees to get it.
“You’re all right, Figger!” the Sawtown players shrieked. “You suits
us fine! Don’t let Skeeter Butts git yo’ goat!”
Figger’s eyes twitched, his jaws worked on his tobacco quid like a
mill, his knees grew weak and wabbly. He wound up to throw the ball,
then suddenly stopped his operations, straightened up, and felt at the
top of his head as if something had hit him.
He threw four balls in rapid succession, not one of which came within
ten feet of the plate, and the batter walked to the first.
He threw another ball, hit the batter on the elbow, and he walked to
first.
He threw another ball, the batter tapped it, and it dropped at the feet
of Figger Bush.
Figger wiped the bitter sweat out of both eyes, stooped down with great
deliberation, picked up the ball, wiped the dust off of it on his
ragged shirt, and threw it to first just as the three Sawtown men came
over the home plate!
“Keep it up, ole boy!” the Sawtown men screamed. “You kin do it--you
got us all guessin’--make us run de bases--dat’s de right boy!”
“Oh, fer de Lawd’s sake, Figger,” Skeeter squealed, “see ef you cain’t
pitch jes’ one straight ball! Don’t put nothin’ on it--jes’ throw it
straight an’ easy!”
Figger threw it straight and easy. A child could have hit it with a
lead-pencil. What the batter did to that ball will never be known. It
sailed over the top of the highest trees like a bird, and is lying
hidden in the Dorfoche woods yet. Then this colored Ty Cobb walked
around the bases and sat down on the home plate, conversing in the
meantime with Figger Bush with choice language.
Prince Total threw aside his mask and chest-protector and walked down
to the pitcher’s box just as the umpire tossed out a new ball.
“Figger, you is de wust pitcher I ever seen!” Prince howled. “You git
up dar an’ ketch, an’ lemme see kin I fan dese niggers out. My Gawd,
you muss be crippled under yo’ hat to play ball like you is doin’!”
“I is,” Figger replied, rubbing his woolly scalp like a man in a dream.
Skeeter Butts left the coaching line, ran into the crowd, and seized
Coco Ferret by a fat arm.
“Come on outen dis crowd, honey!” he squeaked. “Oh, Lawdy, ef you never
done no mascoppin’ before, you git to doin’ it now! Dis is awful!”
“How is mascoppin’ done, Skeeter?” she inquired as the little darky
dragged her out of the crowd.
“Gawd knows!” Skeeter panted as he led her out to where all the
Tickfall team could see her from the field. “You jes’ nachelly be
it--like a luck charm.”
Then he turned to the players and howled:
“I done got yo’ mascop out in front, Prince! Look at dis pretty nigger
gal an’ pick up a brave heart! Set yo’ eye on Coco and do yo’ durndest!
Don’t let nothin’ skeer you, Prince, fer good luck’s done busted right
in yo’ face!”
Prince Total, thus admonished, retired the Sawtown nine with only three
pitched balls. Each batter knocked a fly which was caught in the field.
The Tickfall nine was suddenly jubilant. Four hundred Tickfall fans
bellowed with joy. Skeeter Butts ran to Coco Ferret, threw his arms
around her, an’ giggled:
“Oh, you little, fat mascop! You done bust de bad luck! Eve’y nigger
in dis town loves you like a brudder--an’ me, you done winned my heart
ferever an’ ever!”
* * * * *
When the Tickfall team came in to bat, Hitch Diamond puffed through the
crowd like a steam-engine and started a row.
“Whut de debbil you mean by throwin’ dis game, Figger?” he howled in
irate tones. “Whut de trouble wid yo’ head? Don’t you know you is
losin’ yo’ own good money?”
“Trouble?” Figger Bush bawled. “Dem Sawtown niggers done put a hoodoo
sign on me!”
“How come?” Hitch asked in a changed tone.
“Dey crisscrossed my head wid a rabbit foot.”
“My Gawd!” Hitch howled, and his eyes looked scared. “Why ain’t you
stood pigeontoed when you pitched, Figger? Dat’d bust de sign.”
“Shut up, Hitch!” Pap Curtain snarled as he came into the crowd. “You
stop lowratin’ dat Figger Bush. I done made inquirements, an’ I foun’
out dat all dem Sawtown coons is got a buzzard’s feather in deir hat
an’ snake-dust in deir shoes, an’ a raw pertater in deir pocket. Dey
done sot deir triggers fer luck, and dey got all de rabbit foots in
Sawtown hung roun’ deir necks!”
“My Lawd!” mourned Skeeter Butts, “dem niggers hadn’t oughter did us
dataway.”
“Of co’se, I couldn’t do nothin’!” Figger Bush declared defensively.
“Eve’y time I picked up dat ball it begun to claw at de inside of my
hand jes’ like I wus holdin’ a live Jume bug!”
“Dat’s right!” Prince Total agreed. “Ef dem fust three balls I pitched
hadn’t fotch dem niggers out, I never could ’a’ tossed anodder over dat
plate. Dat ball’s got de slickments, an’ wiggles like a live snake!”
“Shore!” the fielders agreed with awed voices. “Somepin shore ails dat
ball--dey muss hab rubbed it wid eel-juice!”
Skeeter Butts listened to this with ever decreasing hopes of victory
for the team.
“Lawdymussy, niggers!” he sighed helplessly. “Think of all de dollars
we is losin’. Ain’t dar no way to cross dem Sawtown hoodoo signs?”
“Us might try it,” Hitch Diamond said as he dived his hand into his
pocket for his lucky charms. “Less dec’rate de fust batter wid all our
luck pieces!”
“Batter up!” the umpire bawled for the tenth time.
Thereupon Prince Total went to bat, stuffing things in his pockets
until they bulged like the pockets of a boy who had been on a visit to
an apple orchard. He had rabbits’ feet and buzzards’ feathers, iron
rings and iron bolts, buckeyes and raw potatoes, rattlesnake rattles
and birds’ claws, teeth of horses and tusks of hogs, locks of hair and
four-leaf clovers, rings and chains and rubber bands, beer-checks and
copper pennies--a veritable witch’s brew of trifles.
Standing at the plate with all this equipment of luck, he bunted the
ball to the feet of the shortstop, started to first base carrying
his bat, tangled the bat up between his legs, fell on his head, and
scattered his luck-charms all over that part of the diamond.
A loud groan went up from the throats of the spectators, and Prince got
up, picked up his scattered trinkets, placing them in his hat, and laid
them at the feet of Skeeter Butts with a sheepish grin.
“I had too many of dem things, fellers,” he explained. “Too much luck
is more’n a plenty. I couldn’t tote it all!”
Then Figger Bush fanned wildly at two balls, shut his eyes and took a
lick at the third, hit himself on his own shin with the bat, and came
limping back, nursing his crippled leg, and muttering profane things.
In the meanwhile Skeeter had loaded down Mustard Prophet with all the
hoodoo charms which Figger had carried and a large assortment which
Hitch had accumulated by solicitation among the fans. They were in his
shoes, in his belt, in his cap, in his shirt; he rubbed snake-dust on
his hands, sprinkled magic powder on his woolly head, and went to bat
as uneasy as a condemned criminal facing the electric chair.
“Lam de ball, Mustard!” Skeeter howled. “Put some ginger on de bat,
Mustard! You’s puffeckly safe--you done crossed de hoodoo sign on ’em!
I’s prayin’ fer you, Mustard!”
Skeeter’s prayers were not answered.
Mustard saw the first ball coming and jumped ten feet away. He struck
at the second ball after it was in the catcher’s mitt, and he struck
twice at the third ball--once while the pitcher was winding up and
again when the ball was forty feet from the plate. Then he walked back
to Skeeter, delivered of all his lucky pieces, and joined the Tickfall
team on its way to the field.
Then Vinegar Atts walked up and laid his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder.
“Looky here, Skeeter!” he bellowed. “All us niggers is losin’ our
dollars on dis here game! I b’lieves dat dis game has been fixed!”
“’Tain’t so, Elder,” Skeeter denied tearfully. “I done bet fawty
dollars on dis game, an’ I’s gwine lose eve’y cent of dat an’ ten
dollars dat my gal bet!”
“Whut ails dis Tickfall team?” Vinegar wanted to know.
“Dem Sawtowners done got de hoodoo sign on ’em,” Skeeter explained. “I
tried to bust de hoodoo when us wus at bat, but it cain’t be did.”
Vinegar shook his fat fist at the face of Butts.
“I tells you dis, solemn an’ specific, Skeeter: dese here cullud
pussons is bet deir few money on yo’ recommend. Dey don’t figger on
no hoodoo or no nothin’! Ef you done gone an’ fixed dis game, all I
gotter say is, you better unhoodoo our team befo’ dis crowd of coons
make up deir minds whut dey gwine do to you fer sellin’ us out to de
Sawtowners!”
Vinegar Atts walked away with a majestic air, and Skeeter Butts sat
down on the ground beside Coco Ferret, wiping the copious sweat from
his face.
“O Lawd,” he prayed, “ef I only but had a jinx!”
“Whut am a jinx, Skeeter?” Coco inquired.
“It’s a cross-eyed female woman,” Skeeter declared, looking at Coco
hopefully. But Coco’s eyes were round as a buckshot and straight,
perfectly straight.
With a groan Skeeter placed his face in his two hands and mourned:
“We’s gwine lose all our dollars, Coco--dar ain’t no hope!”
“Whut did Vinegar Atts specify de niggers wus gwine do to you?” Coco
asked.
“He ain’t say,” Skeeter told her, speaking from a heart filled with
misery and dreadful foreboding. “I ’speck dey’s gwine hang me.”
A wild yell from the Sawtown rooters caused him to glance up
listlessly. The slaughter had begun again. With another groan he
dropped his head and gave himself up to deep thought.
A sharp crack of hickory against horsehide--Skeeter looked up and saw
the Tickfall center-fielder fumbling with the ball, picking it up and
dropping it three times, while four hilarious Sawtown men came in and
scored.
Skeeter rose to his feet, dusted the seat of his duck trousers, and
said to Coco:
“Little gal, you set right here till I gits back. Dar ain’t no
cross-eyed gals in dis whole town, but I’m gotter bust dat hoodoo sign
onless I hankers to die, which ain’t so. Is you willin’ to he’p me?”
“Suttinly,” Coco assured him.
“All right. You set right here an’ keep on mascoppin’! I’s gwine to
Tickfall.”
* * * * *
Skeeter ran the quarter of a mile to Tickfall, jumped into the door of
the drug-store, and panted:
“Please, suh, I wants a jar of dat white stuff whut de lady folks puts
on deir complexion.”
“Cold cream?” the clerk inquired.
“Naw, suh; it’s a kind of paste whut dey puts on wid a little sponge.”
“I got you,” the clerk answered, reaching up on a shelf and lifting
down a jar. “Face enamel. You go’ner try to git white, Skeeter?”
“Naw, suh; nothin’ like dat. Dis is fer a cullud lady pusson,” Skeeter
snickered as he laid the money on the counter. “How long do it take dis
stuff to dry atter you put it on yo’ mug?”
“About a minute.”
“Kin you gib me a little piece of sponge to smear it on wid?”
The grinning clerk tossed him the sponge, and Skeeter went loping down
the street to a dry-goods store.
“Gimme a thick, black veil ’bout a yard long!” he exclaimed. “I wants a
mournin’ veil!”
With this article clutched in his hand he ran all the way back to the
ball game.
“Whut de sco’, Hitch?” he squealed as he ran through the crowd.
“Twenty-eight to nothin’ favor erf de Sawtowns,” Hitch grunted with a
malignant stare at Skeeter. “You better git busy, Skeeter Butts, an’
bust dis hoodoo--ef it is a hoodoo. Dese here niggers wut bet deir
money is ackin’ powerful peevish an’ specify dat you done sold ’em
out--I favors dat view myse’f.”
“Dat’s jes’ de way wid niggers,” Skeeter whined.
“Dey been winnin’ money offen dis nine all summer, an’ now when us is
struck a losin’ streak dey talks ’bout mobbin’ me!”
He ran over to where Coco Ferret sat. She looked up and said:
“Whut muss I do, Skeeter? I been tryin’ to mascop, but dat don’t do no
good!”
“Come wid me, honey!” Skeeter replied, and led her through the crowd
and into the picnic grounds, where a growth of underbrush screened them
from view.
There he produced his jar of face-enamel, and explained:
“Coco, my maw wus de greates’ hoodoo dorctor in dis parish. When she
died she gimme dis jar of hoodoo juice an’ tole me ef I would rub it
on de face of de gal I loved dat gal would bust any hoodoo sign in
de worl’. I loves you best of all, an’ ef you ain’t got no real good
objections I’ll an’int yo’ mug wid dis juice.”
“Do it hurt?” Coco asked.
“Naw!” Skeeter declared.
He took her hand, rubbed the enamel over the back of her wrist, and
wiped it off quickly, leaving the skin coal-black as before.
“It makes de hide feel cold like ice,” Coco giggled as she took off her
hat and held her head back. “Smear it on thick, Skeeter!”
Skeeter dipped his sponge in the enamel and gladly smeared it on thick.
He wiped the mess across the girl’s forehead, down each cheek, and
under her chin. The black skin under that whitening made the most
poisonous-looking combination imaginable.
“I ain’t gwine put dis close aroun’ yo’ eyes, honey,” Skeeter declared.
“I’ll jes’ make a nice roun’ ring roun’ yo’ eyes an’ yo’ mouth because
I’s skeart it might sting ef it got in dem places.”
“Smear it on thick, Skeeter,” the girl snickered. “It shore feels cold
an’ smells sweet.”
In two minutes Skeeter looked upon the work which his hand had made,
and pronounced it very good.
“Dat’ll shore fetch ’em, Coco,” he giggled. “When our mascop shows up
all greased wid hoodoo-ile somepin is gwine be doin’ wid dem Sawtown
coons!”
He laid his black veil on Coco’s lap.
“Now, honey, you let dat juice dry a minute, den you put dat veil over
yo’ hat an’ down over yo’ face.”
Skeeter helped her to adjust the veil, and they were ready.
Ecstatic whoops from the Sawtown team came to their ears, informing
them that the massacre was still in progress.
The score stood thirty-seven to nothing in favor of Sawtown, and the
Sawtown captain grew weary of the game.
“You fellers stop hittin’ dat ball! We got to play at least five
innings befo’ we kin be shore of gittin’ our bet-money,” he bellowed.
“Us is done got ’em beat--fan out! Eve’y batter is ordered to fan out!”
“Dat’s suits me,” Skeeter snickered as this command was expressed loud
enough for everyone to hear. “Dey’ll change deir tune in a minute.
Dey’ll want to hit de ball an’ cain’t!”
The Sawtown batters, responsive to the captain’s order, went out--one,
two, three.
Again Tickfall was at the bat--the last half of the second inning.
“Now, Coco,” Skeeter said as a scar-faced negro named Possum picked up
the bat and went to the plate. “Dis is yo’ time to git busy an’ save
de day. You stand over dar--as close to fust base as you kin git. I’s
gwine over an’ stand by third base. Don’t you raise up yo’ veil until I
gives de sign.”
“Whut is de sign?” Coco giggled.
“When I lifts my hat like I wus bowin’ to a lady den you raise up yo’
veil, an’ stick it up on top of yo’ hat.”
“All right,” Coco agreed. “I’ll watch fer de sign.”
* * * * *
“Hey, fellers!” the Sawtown pitcher whooped as he pointed toward first
base. “Look at de Tickfall mascop all diked out in black mournin’! Dey
got her fixed right now!”
Loud yells from the Sawtown players greeted this remark, and a moment
later the Sawtown pitcher delivered the ball. Possum bunted it toward
the shortstop, and started for first base like a rabbit.
Skeeter Butts raised his hat with a most exaggerated bow.
Coco Ferret raised her veil.
Possum never reached first base.
He took one look at Coco’s face, gave utterance to a howl which would
have frightened a European war general, and started for left field by
way of the pitcher’s box, looking behind him and whining like a dog.
Just as the shortstop threw to first the Sawtown first-baseman got a
look at Coco’s face.
“My gosh!” he whooped.
His arms dropped paralyzed to his sides, he received the baseball full
in his stomach, and started after Possum at his best gait.
“My Gawd!” the Sawtown pitcher yelped; his glove fell from his hand,
and he started away.
“Dat gal’s got some kind of ketchin’ disease!” the third-baseman
squalled; and thereupon he and the second-baseman, the shortstop, and
the catcher started after the pitcher in wild flight, looking behind
them as if fearful that the object of their fright would pursue them.
Coco Ferret, lacking a woman’s best friend--a mirror--and having no
idea of her horrific appearance, turned and grinned at the crowd of
Tickfall negroes, delighted with her success as a hoodoo breaker.
“Oh--my--Lawd A’mighty!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, his eyes popping with
fright, his mouth spread wide in horrified imbecility. “Whut is Gawd
done gone an’ done to dat gal? Run, niggers, run!”
Vinegar’s hand was pointing Coco out to the crowd, but the girl at
that moment was looking toward Skeeter Butts, grinning like a drunken
nightmare.
The crowd paused just long enough to look.
What they saw was a girl who had been shiny-black two hours before--but
now her face was white, with black rings around the eyes and mouth; a
ghastly, horrible whiteness, poisonous-looking and appalling, enough to
frighten any sane man into jimjams.
Vinegar Atts started toward Tickfall, bellowing like a cow.
Four hundred squalling blacks fell in behind him, fighting for room to
run, grabbing at each other’s coat tails to accelerate their speed,
taking frightened glances behind them every moment, then adding another
octave to the vocalization of their fright.
Out on the highroad they kicked up the dust and sand like a cyclone,
but the dust-cloud did not obscure the light-blue dress of Coco Ferret
as she trotted down the road behind them.
Skeeter Butts trotted behind Coco, cackling like a hen.
“Keep it up, honey!” he squawked. “You shore is a grand little hoodoo
sign buster! Chase ’em plum’ to town! You done saved our money an’
saved my life!”
At the little bridge over the Coolie Creek on the edge of Tickfall,
Skeeter Butts tried to stop her.
“Less blow a while an’ rest our foots, Coco,” he snickered. “Lawd, dat
shore wus a dandy race!”
“Naw!” Coco declared. “I ain’t gwine rest till I gits home! Dis here
mess is hot on my face. It wus cool at fust.”
“Pull down yo’ veil, honey!” Skeeter begged her. “Dis here face juice
is too precious fer igernunt niggers to see.”
Coco adjusted her veil, and they lingered a moment at the bridge,
cooling off under the shade of the trees. Finally Coco asked:
“Skeeter, wus dem niggers runnin’ away from me?”
“Naw!” Skeeter declared. “It wus dat hoodoo juice dat sont ’em skootin’
home. My maw shore told de truth ’bout dat juice.”
“Kin I have de rest of de juice, Skeeter?” Coco asked as they strolled
slowly toward her cabin.
“Suttinly!” Skeeter said, producing the little jar from his pocket.
“But I bet you don’t never use it no more, Coco.”
“I bet I does,” Coco giggled as they walked up the steps of her cabin.
The girl laid her hat and veil on the bed and sat down.
Skeeter broke into a loud laugh.
“Whut you laughin’ at, nigger?” Coco demanded.
“Go, take a peep at yo’se’f in de lookin’-glass. Coco,” Skeeter
cackled. “Oh, my goodness gracious Moses----”
He sprang to his feet, caught hold of the mantel with both hands, and
hung there, helpless with laughter, his alligator mouth stretched to
the limit.
Coco walked to the mirror.