powerful bad, an’ I was thinkin’ dat I’d like to hear a few advices of
de Bible preached an’ a little religium singin’.”
“I cain’t he’p you now, Brudder,” Vinegar panted. “Wait till I git my
breath back. How kin I bawl out wid de message when I’s all wind-broke
like dis?”
Skeeter waited a few minutes, then turned to his dreadful dream book
and began to read, mumbling to himself.
Suddenly Skeeter raised his head with a jerk and gazed up at the moon.
He sprang to his feet and began to count on his fingers. The others
watched him with intense curiosity. Finally he howled:
“He’p me, niggers; he’p me quick! Whut day of de mont’ is dis?”
“Dis is de twenty-six’!” Vinegar panted. “De day of de full moon.”
“When did de new moon come in?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“De new moon wus de tenth!” Pap Curtain informed him.
“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter howled, his voice breaking into a sob.
He squatted down and held the book close to the fire, reading aloud to
himself in a low tone.
“How many days is passed since de new moon, brudders?” Skeeter inquired
in a trembling voice.
“Sixteen!” Vinegar replied, after making the count.
“Us all had our dreams las’ night, didn’t we?” Skeeter squealed.
“Yes, suh,” the chorus answered.
“Lawdymussy, niggers, _we is saved_!” Skeeter screamed, waving his
dream book about his head. “I done found a new page in dis book!”
“Whut do she say?” the chorus screamed.
“Listen to dis!” Skeeter panted: “‘Jedgments drawn from de moon’s
age: Dreams on de fifteenth day atter de new moon _will not come to
pass_; whatever bizzness a pusson undertakes dis day will prosper.
De sixteenth day differs very little from de pre-ced-in’; but any
undertakin’ on dis day will come to a foolish end.’”
“Bless Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine
trust de Lawd an’ mosey back to Tickfall!”
“Hol’ on, niggers!” Skeeter squealed, as the others also sprang up.
Skeeter stooped over the fire and laid his little volume on the
interpretation of dreams upon the hot ashes.
“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to
the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”
The Gift of Power
Vinegar Atts was in trouble.
He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch
saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach
resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless
wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous
sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at
intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered
nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from
the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where
it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket.
Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it
beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar
into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.
After a long silence Vinegar said mournfully:
“I cogitate dat they done deeprive me of my goat, Skeeter.”
“Yes, sur; dat’s so, suh. It ’pears to me dat you is fightin’ it out
wid yo’se’f fer de las’ place in de race.”
Vinegar Atts sighed. He picked up his pipe from the ground, filled it
with strong perique tobacco, lighted it, then let the bowl drop off of
the stem, scattering the ashes over his lap and spilling the tobacco.
Not noticing the accident, Vinegar sucked vigorously on the stem, and
gave himself up to gloomy meditations.
“I been de pasture of de Shoofly church fer twenty year hand-runnin’,
Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked at last. “I begged de loose change outen de
pockets of de white folks to build dat church. I wus de fust preacher
an’ de onlies’ preacher dey is ever had dar. An’ now dey is gwine gib
me de farewell go-by.”
“Dat new nigger preacher shore is makin’ a bull-eye hit wid de
members,” Skeeter remarked. “You see, de members of de Shoofly church
is done got acquainted wid yo’ ways. Dey done listened to dem same
sermonts fer de las’ twenty year----”
“Dey listen but dey don’t heed,” Vinegar Atts interrupted disgustedly.
“Shorely. Dat’s de way mos’ church members is,” Skeeter replied. “But,
you see, dis new preacher he comes in wid a new loud voice----”
“You gimme a good dram an’ two sour lemons an’ I kin beller louder dan
any yuther preacher in de worl’,” Vinegar Atts declared.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter replied propitiatingly. “But dese Tickfall niggers
is done got intimate wid yo’ bawl an’ it don’t sot heavy on deir minds
no more. Dey figger dat dey needs a change of tone.”
“Dey shore is treated me jes’ like a feetball,” Vinegar mourned.
“Kicked me aroun’ scandalous!”
“Is de cormittee fired you yit?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.
“Naw!” Vinegar exploded. “Ef dey fires me, I’ll punch de stuffin’ outen
deir hides. But I ’spose dey is gittin’ ready to send me my resign.”
“Dat’s powerful bad,” Skeeter sighed. “I stuck to you like a frien’
because you is always been one of my bes’ silent customers. I talked
for you awful hard, an’ holped you all I could. I’s sorry dat dey
drapped you down.”
“Dat new preacher worked a buzzo on me,” Vinegar lamented. “He fotch up
in dis town while I wus oozin’ along in de Shongaloo woods, an’ had all
de cormittee pregaged befo’ I got back. Fust news I knowed he had done
hogged all de hominy. He hadn’t oughter did me dat way.”
“He shore did ack familious wid anodder man’s job,” Skeeter agreed.
“But whut made de mostes’ hit wus his looks: he’s got a new suit
of clothes, an’ gold eye-specks, an’ a ruben ring. He waves a silk
handkercher, totes a teethbrush an’ wears pink socks.”
“All dem things is jes’ like de curl in a pig’s tail,” Vinegar Atts
proclaimed. “Dey is ornamental, but dey don’t make no more pig!”
“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter grinned. “But a pig whut ain’t got no ornamint
twist in his tail a-tall is suttinly pure scrub!”
Vinegar stooped and recovered the bowl of his pipe, refilled it and
began to smoke furiously. Skeeter fiddled with a brass wrist-watch
which he wore with prideful ostentation. A hound dog lying upon the
saloon steps scratched himself with such a noisy and monotonous
knocking of his elbow against the boards that Vinegar roused himself
and hurled maledictions and pine knots at him.
Then Skeeter asked:
“When is de cormittee gwine hold its las’ meetin’?”
“To-morrer night in my orfice in de Shoofly church,” Vinegar told
him. “I figger dat’ll be de las’ time I’ll ever set by dat table. Of
co’se, de cormittee will vote agin me an’ de church will vote wid de
cormittee.”
“Whut is you gwine do fer a livin’?” Skeeter asked with interest.
“I done got me a job as Marse Tom Gaitskill’s butler,” Vinegar said.
“Hitch Diamond, he used to buttle fer Marse Tom, but de kunnel specify
dat Hitch couldn’t show no hon’able scars whar he hurt hisself wuckin’,
so he fired him. I got Hitch’s job.”
“Dat wus good luck fer you,” Skeeter said in a delighted tone.
“Naw, suh, ’twas bad luck,” Vinegar said mournfully. “You see, Hitch is
a member of dat church cormittee, an’ he’s gwine vote agin me because I
picked up de job whut he drapped.”
“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed. “You is like a snake whut’s got his tail in his
mouf--jes’ spinnin’ aroun’ yo’se’f in a circuous ring!”
Vinegar picked up his hat and stood up.
“I got to mosey up to Marse Tom’s, Skeeter,” he said. “De kunnel is
gwine hab big comp’ny tonight. I’s much obleeged fer yo’ pity in my
many troubles.”
“Pick up a brave heart, Vinegar,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Mebbe
de good Lawd will pervide.”
“I ain’t so certain ’bout dat, Skeeter,” Vinegar replied gloomily, as
he walked out of the yard. “It looks to me mighty like Proverdunce is
done busted a dynamite cap under my shirt!”
* * * * *
Four men sat around the table in the Gaitskill dining-room. The covers
had been removed, and they were devoting themselves to an evening of
boyish frolic. Everything went.
There was Colonel Tom Gaitskill, an ideal host, courtly, genial, whose
fountains of humor never went dry, making him eternally young. Near
him sat the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, eloquent, scholarly, whose fine
face, seamed and wrinkled with suffering, was written all over with
the literature of experience. Across the table was John Flournoy, the
sheriff whose reputation exceeded the boundaries of the State, a man
with a giant’s form and strength, a woman’s tenderness, and the courage
of a host of jungle beasts.
And the guest of honor for the evening was Gaitskill’s life-long
friend, Captain Lemuel Manse, a retired millionaire, who had received
his title from the fact that he was owner of that beautiful sea-going
yacht, whose keel had cut the waters of every sea upon the globe, and
which had brought to Tickfall the never-to-be-forgotten Diada.
For four hours Vinegar Atts had served them in that dining-room,
silent, watchful, with some mysterious instinct foreseeing the minutest
need of every guest and meeting it before the guest himself was
conscious what his need was.
The talk had become reminiscent.
“Say, Lem,” Colonel Gaitskill remarked, “do you remember how we used to
scare the everlasting gizzards out of the niggers on the plantation by
holding spiritualistic séances in their cabins?”
“Will I ever forget it?” Captain Manse laughed. “The darkies used to
run when they saw me coming!”
“I wonder if you have forgotten how to make the table dance?” Gaitskill
asked.
Captain Manse promptly pushed back his chair.
Vinegar Atts had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew
instinctively that the table should be cleared. His long arms reached
over the shoulders of the men and the liquors and the cigars were
placed upon the sideboard.
With fun sparkling in his magnetic eyes, Manse arose and began the
repetition of a stunt which had amused him half a century before.
“Gentlemen,” he began, in a sing-song voice, imitating the manner of
the professional mediums, “there is an even number of us present,
which makes a perfect spiritualistic ring. I presume you will smile
and chuckle and fling unholy jests at the wonderful miracles which I
perform, but I shall most certainly convince you of my close communion
with the spirits of the unseen world. You might doubt a professional
test, but this is an amateur séance. Here is no hidden machinery. Here
are no paid confederates. You are my best friends, and why should I try
to fool you? We are all sincere and open to conviction, and any results
which are obtained must surely be authentic.”
This address concluded amid laughter and applause.
The four men drew up to the heavy mahogany table and placed their hands
upon its polished top, palms down.
“My friends,” Captain Manse said in a husky whisper, “you will all
keep silent, please. You will notice that it looks impossible for any
person to move this heavy table by merely placing the hands upon it. No
strength can be put into the open palms, it is impracticable to pull or
lift or push from the elbows. The legs or feet cannot be brought into
use, for they are not allowed to touch the board. And yet the table
will move! Silence, gentlemen! If a spirit is present, he will give us
a message through the table!”
Several long minutes slowly passed. No sound was audible except the
steady, deep breathing of the four men sitting at the table.
As for Vinegar Atts, respiration had ceased some minutes before.
Suddenly, after the long strain of tense silence, Dr. Sentelle, the
semi-invalid, took a deep breath--a sigh--and the heavy table rose
slowly, teeteringly, under his delicate, fragile, blue-veined hands!
“Ah, some spirit has come at last,” Captain Manse exclaimed in a deep,
sepulchral, sing-song undertone.
Again there was total silence, and the strain of waiting, and the
sweating palms of the men outspread upon the table; Sheriff Flournoy
took a long, deep breath.
Again the table tipped, bumped against the floor, and settled down!
“Dr. Sentelle,” Captain Manse spoke in a tone hushed and full of awe,
“the spirit of my long-lost dead poll-parrot will answer any question
which you desire to ask!”
Dr. Sentelle sighed audibly.
He raised his eyes toward the ceiling and in a low, thrilling,
beautiful voice, he asked:
“Are you happy, Polly-parrot, since you became a bird of paradise?”
Instantly, the heavy table struck the floor three times--bump! bump!
bump! “Y-e-s.”
There was a whoop of laughter and the men sprang to their feet.
“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed with a chuckle. “If some of the
experiences Lem and I had when we were young were wiped out of my
memory, I wouldn’t know my soul in eternity.”
“That’s right,” Captain Manse laughed. “I recall one Christmas day when
Tom’s niggers were eating in the kitchen, Tom and I went in there and
made that table dance all over the place and scared the darkies so they
wouldn’t touch a bite of that Christmas dinner. Of course, we had to
fake that stunt. In fact, most of this spiritualistic stuff is faked
now.”
“How is it done?” Flournoy asked.
Captain Manse explained several of the methods by which the
table-tipping fakes deceived the credulous public, then the talk
drifted into national politics.
In a moment Gaitskill looked up with surprise. Did not Vinegar Atts
know that the theme of politics called for liquors and cigars?
Vinegar Atts stood beside the door as motionless as a Chinese idol, and
his black face, expressive of meditation, mystification, fright and
awe, made him almost as ugly as an idol.
But the colonel’s look galvanized him into action, and he was once more
the silent, well-oiled, efficient machine of service.
“Let’s move out on the gallery, gentlemen,” Gaitskill suggested after a
while. “We’ll find it cooler there.”
As the men passed out, Gaitskill lingered a moment and said:
“That’s all, Vinegar. You are dismissed for the evening.”
Vinegar Atts pulled the doors of the dining-room together, waited
a moment until he was sure the men had settled themselves upon the
gallery, and then he did a very unusual thing.
Seating himself at the mahogany table in the chair which Captain Manse
had occupied, he spread his immense black hands palm-downward upon
its shiny surface and with a perfect imitation of Manse’s manner, sat
there for five minutes, in ludicrous, pop-eyed expectation, waiting for
something to happen!
He looked up at the ceiling, and down to the table. He pushed on the
table-top with all his strength. He drew in a breath which seemed to
consume all the air in the room, and emitted a sigh like the exhaust of
a blast furnace--but all to no avail.
“It cain’t be did widout plenty practice,” he assured himself. “But I
ain’t got nothin’ to do all de rest of dis night but kotch on how to
make her jigger!”
He went out to his cabin in the rear of the Gaitskill yard and sat down
beside a cheap pine table.
When morning dawned he was still sitting there, puffing and blowing,
his sweating palms pressed downward upon the table’s rough surface, his
credulity unshaken despite his failure, waiting for something to happen!
“Lawd,” he sighed. “She ain’t even wagged her tail fer me all night
long!”
* * * * *
Vinegar Atts spent the day in various activities, some of them of a
personal nature, and some under the direction of Colonel Gaitskill.
When evening came he was free, and started on a gloomy walk to the
office of the Shoofly church, where the Committee on Pulpit Supply was
to hold its last session and determine whether Vinegar should retain
the pulpit which he had occupied for twenty years, or surrender his
prophet’s mantle to another.
Sitting around a cheap pine table in the middle of the room, Vinegar
found Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush and Skeeter Butts. Of the
four, Skeeter was now his only friend.
At the end of the table sat the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe, a tall,
black, thin-faced, ladder-headed negro, whose clothes were so loud that
they proclaimed the man a block and a half away. He bore himself with
an air of triumph, and gazed upon Vinegar Atts with a look of mingled
pity and contempt.
Vinegar was also dressed in the loudest manner his purse would afford,
but the showiest things about him were his extraordinarily large and
immaculately white shirt cuffs. His manner was meek and apologetic,
utterly unnatural to Vinegar, who had been accustomed for twenty years
to butt and bellow like a bull of Bashan among the sheep in the Shoofly
fold.
“De meetin’ will come to orders an’ de sec’tary will specify de
bizzness of de las’ session,” Pap Curtain, the chairman, announced
importantly.
“Us didn’t do nothin’ but gass,” Figger Bush answered promptly. “De
Revun Vinegar Atts had done made hisse’f abasent, an’ us didn’t take no
action on de Revun Tucky Sipe gittin’ de job. Us took a mebbe-so vote,
an’ all of us favored Tucky Sipe, excusin’ Skeeter Butts.”
Figger sat down, and Vinegar Atts moved his chair to the table and
seated himself close beside the secretary.
“De bizzness of dis meetin’ am to choose a preacher fer de Shoofly
church,” Pap Curtain announced. “Ef anybody is got any speeches on deir
mind, let ’em squall out!”
Hitch Diamond arose and cleared his throat.
“Brudders, I feels dat us needs a change. We is done had a fat,
squat-leg preacher fer twenty year, an’ now dis here spindlin’-shank
is come applyin’ fer de job, an’ I favors him. He knows how to wear
clothes, he’s got a good-soundin’ whoop to his religium advices, an’
knows how to tag on de ’rousements when he ’postolizes.”
“I feels de same motion, brudders,” Figger Bush put in when Hitch
had taken his seat. “Vinegar gibs us good advices, but it ’pears like
he cain’t make us take ’em. I heerd de Revun Tucky Sipe las’ Sunday,
an’ he gib us cautions jes’ like he had done had a session wid de
gram-jury. I ain’t much mo’ dan a seat-member of dis church, but I
likes de skinny parsons best.”
“I got de same notions in my head, too, brudders,” Pap Curtain
declared, as Figger sat down. “I is shore dat Tucky Sipe won’t
slanderize nobody, an’ won’t snoop aroun’ huntin’ fer somebody’s sins
to preach again an’ git often de subjeck dat way. He jes’ preaches de
true word. I votes hearty fer Tucky Sipe!”
There was a moment of silent expectation, and all eyes were turned
toward Skeeter Butts. Skeeter wiggled and clawed at his head, but did
not offer to speak. At last, Vinegar Atts said in a husky voice:
“Skeeter, will you please git me a drink of water outen de well. I
feels powerful dry in my innards. Dar’s a pint tin cup out dar by de
water-buckit.”
There was another silence until Skeeter returned with the cup. Vinegar
drained the contents at one gulp, then turned the cup upside down and
set it in the middle of the table.
“Would you wish to relieve yo’ mind, Skeeter?” Pap Curtain asked.
“Naw, suh,” Skeeter said in an embarrassed tone. “You’all knows dat I
favors de Revun Vinegar Atts. Him an’ me is good frien’s, an’ he ain’t
never did me no harm. I favors keepin’ him wid us, but of co’se, I
gotter bow down when de vote stan’s three to one.”
During Skeeter’s speech, Vinegar Atts sat beside the table, his hands
spread out, palms downward, upon the top.
Suddenly the table began to move! It slid slowly forward, then slipped
backward, then tipped up on one end!
“Stop shoving dis table aroun’!” Pap Curtain exclaimed.
Vinegar Atts moved his chair back so that all could see his feet and
his knees. Then the table slowly lifted a few inches, and fell with a
sliding motion, hitting Pap Curtain a jolt in the stomach, and almost
upsetting the smoky oil lamp which occupied the center of the table.
“Hey, dar!” the Reverend Tucky Sipe exclaimed, as he grabbed at the
tottering lamp. “Whut ails dat table to make it cut up dat way?”
Vinegar Atts emitted a deep, audible sigh, and his eyes were fixed upon
the ceiling in a look of abstracted reverence and devotion.
An awed silence fell upon the men, and Skeeter Butts ostentatiously
moved his chair close to the open door. If anything happened, Skeeter
intended to lead the getaway.
The heat of the night was intense and overwhelming. Above their heads
countless mosquitoes, attracted by the light, circled ceaselessly
with an annoying whine of wings. Far away came the rumble of a summer
thunderstorm. From a pine tree in the graveyard the voice of a
screech-owl quavered like the cry of a child lost in the darkness.
Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe promptly arose and turned the side pockets of
his pantaloons wrong side out--a sure cure for screech-owls!
The men moved back from the table and stared at it with popping
eyeballs. Vinegar sat beside it alone, his palms outspread upon its
rough surface.
A loud sigh came from Vinegar’s throat.
The table slowly rose, teetered for a breathless moment, then fell to
the floor with a loud bump. The lamp chimney tottered and fell upon the
table, smashing into tiny fragments.
The negroes sprang to their feet in terror--all except Vinegar Atts. He
remained with his hands upon the table, sitting as if in a trance.
The lamp wick flared, filling the room with smoke. After a moment
Vinegar adjusted the wick, setting the lamp in the center of the table,
moving the pint cup to one side as he did so.
Then he moved his chair back from the table and seated himself beside
Skeeter Butts at the door.
For a short time no word was spoken. Then the men began to recover
their nerve, and Pap Curtain resumed the discussion of their business:
“I figger dat enough has done been said, brudders,” he declared. “De
lamp chimney is done busted an’ us ain’t gwine hab no light on dis
subjeck very much longer. I motions dat--My Gawd, _whut is dat_?”
This last question was a scream, as Pap pointed with trembling fingers
at the pint tin cup. It was moving slowly across the table!
The men watched its erratic movements with breathless fascination. It
moved forward toward the edge, then backward toward the center of the
table; then it moved slowly in a circle, and finally took a straight
line and toppled off the edge of the table onto the floor!
Every negro jumped about two feet into the air, and bolted into the
yard with a loud whoop.
Vinegar Atts alone retained his seat by the door and seemed to be
unconscious of what was happening. They looked at him in wonder, not
speaking a word.
After a while Vinegar stood up, opened the door which entered into the
church auditorium, and returned with a new lamp chimney. Wiping it out
carefully with a soiled bandanna handkerchief, he adjusted it upon the
lamp, and said in a cordial voice:
“Come in, brudders! Us is done had excitements, but dis meetin’ ain’t
bust up yit!”
The darkies timidly re-entered the room and sat down on the edge of
their chairs ready for flight upon the least provocation.
After giving them time to recover their composure, Vinegar said:
“Brudder Chairman, I figger dat it would be doin’ de high perlite
ef you axed fer a speech from de preacher whut is done served dis
communion to de best of his ability fer twenty year.”
“Dat’s right, Elder!” Pap Curtain said heartily. “Us ’ll shore be glad
to hear yo’ cormitmints!”
Vinegar hesitated a moment, then spoke impressively:
“Brudders, I believes dat a preacher oughter hab some things besides
good clothes, spindlin’ shanks, a ’rousement voice an’ a appertite fer
good grub. Does you’all believe dat?”
No one answered the question, but after a pause Pap Curtain inquired:
“Whut else do he oughter hab?”
“He oughter hab de gift of power!” Vinegar roared in a mighty voice.
“Does you’all believe dat?”
“Sho’ly!” the men murmured.
“Now, brudders,” Vinegar went on, “I built dis here church wid my own
hands; I begged de money from de white folks to buy de timber whut went
in it; I sawed de wood whut made de pulpit an’ de benches, an’ eve’y
block of wood in dis church knows my hands an’ obeys my voice. I got de
gift of power!”
He paused. The men looked at the pine table with shifty, frightened
eyes.
“When I puts my wide open hand on a piece of furniture in dis church,
it gits up an’ rambles!” Vinegar bellowed. “De spirits of de onseen
worl’ tells dem furniture to git up an’ hustle! Kin de Revun Tucky Chew
Sipe say de same as me?”
Tucky Sipe stared at Atts with the expression of a glass-eyed doll;
he fingered a mangy rabbit foot in his left hip pocket; he licked his
parched lips with a dry tongue; but he offered no reply.
“When I puts my hands down on dis table, I got de gift of power to make
her move!” Vinegar bawled. “Even de tin cups goes ramblin’ aroun’ when
dey hears my hawn!”