rocks are as scarce as ice-cream cones in a Louisiana swamp.
“Huh!” Vinegar grunted as he moved farther and farther away from the
irate white men. “Dem white gen’lemens is done poured me back in de
jug!”
“Now, we’ll start again!” Rouke proclaimed. “Ready, action, go!”
Lalla and Sour Sudds began their love play, the camera clicking off
their perfect action.
“Now, Figger!” Rouke bawled. “Come on! Pick up the tray and walk to the
table!”
Figger came on. And Rouke nearly threw a fit.
Seizing the tray in both hands, Figger held it in front of him in a
strained, awkward manner; he side-stepped into the focus of the camera,
set his eyes straight at the lens where the country photographers used
to tell us the “little bird” could be seen, and marched face-on to the
table; he set the waiter down without changing his full-face position
toward the camera, backed ten feet, side-stepped out of the focus, then
squealed and kicked up his heels much as a mule colt would act when
turned into a pasture!
“My--good--gosh!” Shirley Rouke shrieked. That is to say, this is the
only remark he made which the law would permit of publication. “What
did you mean by that stunt?”
“I wus havin’ my picture took, boss,” Figger informed him in frightened
tones, for Figger was appalled by the language he had heard.
“But--but--why didn’t you act natural?” Rouke spluttered.
“Dat ain’t no way to do, boss,” Figger declared. “When us niggers gits
our tintypes koodaked us is got to show bofe foots, bofe hands, bofe
eyes, and bofe ears. We don’t take no sideways picture. Ef us don’t
show all of ourse’ves, de niggers will figger dat one eye done got
gouged out, or one ear done been cut off. Yes, suh, dat’s right.”
“Shore!” a chorus of negro voices answered. “Us ain’t gwine hab our
pictures took no way but straight on!”
In hopeless impotence, Shirley Rouke turned to Peter Pellet for aid and
comfort, and beheld that artist doubled up, helpless with laughter.
“What’s the matter with you, you blue-mass pill?” Rouke bawled.
“Oh, lordy, Roukey,” Peter howled. “That’s the funniest stunt ever
pulled before a camera! It’ll get a laugh from Broadway to the Chinese
Yellow Sea. Buck up, and go on with the show!”
Rouke felt greatly mollified.
“All right! Get ready, now! Pour the wine in those glasses, Sudds!
Ready! Action! Go!”
The steady click of the camera amid a breathless silence; then Rouke’s
command:
“Come on, Skeeter! Come on!”
Skeeter came on!
He bounced into the picture with a perfect imitation of a she-bear
approaching a man who was holding her squealing cub by the ear. Sour
bad been too realistic in his acting, and Skeeter was jealous. He
grabbed Sudds by the nose, shook him as a dog shakes a rat, grabbed the
wine bottle and broke it over Sour’s head, then administered a punch
on the jaw which sent Sudds reeling out of his chair to the ground.
Then Sudds came back. Seizing Skeeter by the nape of the neck, he
pounded his head against the table until it rattled like a snare drum.
Skeeter twisted and squealed until he managed to land a mighty kick
in the pit of Sour’s stomach, then he sprang up, grabbed a chair and
proceeded to use it as a club.
Sour seized the little deal-table, poised it above his head like a
shield, and pranced around, receiving Skeeter’s frenzied blows on the
top of the table instead of the top of his head.
Lalla Cordona backed slowly away from the fray, her shapely, beautiful
hands clasped over her heaving breast, her breath coming in quick
gasps, her face expressing emotions which alternated between fear and
hope and horror and despair.
Then she swept forward with a grace and power simply majestic in its
action, held out her hands to the furious men and spoke one word:
“Please!”
The negroes, whose view of the fight had been obscured by the camera
and the bodies of Rouke and Pellet, started around them toward the
front, where they could see.
“Keep out of the picture!” Rouke screamed. “I’ll kill the first nigger
that moves!”
Skeeter and Sudds ceased their combat, dropped their weapons of war,
and each held out his hands to Lalla Cordona, pleading, beseeching,
each asking her approval of the part he had taken in the fray.
The girl stood for a moment looking from one to the other, hesitant,
indignant.
“Don’t pay no mind to dat Sudds, Missy,” Skeeter pleaded. “His name
proves dat he ain’t nothin’ but dirty dishwater, an’ his maw wus a
cheap washlady. Come along wid me, an’ be my frien’! I loves you mo’
dan he do!”
“You niggers hike!” Lalla spoke.
Her voice bit into their souls like acid, and the men turned and
started slowly away.
The girl stood looking after them a moment, then she ran to the tree
where her horse was standing hitched.
Skeeter and Sudds sprang after her.
“Come back, Miss Laller!” they bawled in a duet. “Us’ll be real nice
gen’lemens!”
“No!” she said sharply, as she untied her horse and sprang into the
buggy. “I done had enough rough-housin’ to last me a long time. I’s
gwine back to Tickfall!”
Drenched with perspiration, his face as red as blood, Shirley Rouke
mopped the sweat from his forehead and gazed inquiringly at Peter
Pellet.
Peter was panting like a hot dog, but his eyes blazed in triumph.
“I got it all, Roukey!” he said.
V
READY--ACTION--GO!
Shirley Rouke and Peter Pellet sat upon the sun-slashed porch of the
Tickfall hotel smoking their after-breakfast cigars.
The day was as clear and beautiful and buoyant as a soap bubble, and
the Gulf breeze, sweeping across one hundred miles of forest, tasted
salt upon their lips, and made music upon the fluted tree tops.
Rev. Vinegar Atts and Sour Sudds ploughed across the sandy street, and
stepped upon the porch, where the men reclined in their chairs in lazy
enjoyment of the hour.
“Mr. Rouke,” Vinegar began, “when is us gwine start takin’ our koodaks?”
“You niggers ain’t got good sense,” Rouke replied indifferently. “I
tried to take the pictures yesterday, and you coons rough-housed and
made a pack of dang monkeys out of yourselves.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s so,” Vinegar acquiesced. “But I done de best I could.
Dem niggers ain’t edgecated up to koodaks yit.”
“I guess not,” Shirley drawled.
“Me an’ Brudder Sudds is been talkin’ about it,” Vinegar went on, “an’
Sudds specify dat he don’t think he had a fair show. He wants to hab
one mo’ try-on.”
“Dat’s right!” Sudds chimed in.
“What do you folks want to do?” Shirley asked curiously.
“Sudds, he specify dat he figgers dat a make-b’lieve weddin’ betwix’
him an’ dat N’Awleens gal would be jes’ de right do,” Vinegar proposed.
“Who’ll marry ’em?” Rouke asked, watching the smoke curl up from the
end of his cigar.
“Me!” Vinegar proclaimed in an explosive tone. “Dat is my real
bizzness. I marrifies all de niggers.”
“I see,” Shirley grinned. “You want to get into the picture yourself!”
“Yes, suh, I’ll take a real good picture. I ain’t got no whiskers an’
my head is bald--dar ain’t nothin’ to hide me.”
“All right,” Rouke laughed. “Get all the niggers together, and I’ll try
it again. Maybe you folks will get used to the camera after a while,
and I can put on my play. Where is that little wench named Lulu----”
“Laller?” Vinegar corrected him. “She wucks fer Sheriff John Flournoy.
I’ll git her for you.”
“Get busy, then,” Rouke snapped, his mind beginning to work like a
dynamo. “Get all the niggers together at the Shoofly church at twelve
o’clock. Tell that Lulu--Laller, to dress herself up for a wedding.
Hunt up that Skoot Butts, and tell him to get ready to act the part of
the rejected suitor--he was certainly a dandy in that rôle yesterday!
Hunt up that Diamond Hitch, and tell him he is to be the father of
Lalla, and give her away at the wedding. That’s all!”
Vinegar knew that he was dismissed, but he still lingered.
“Well?” Rouke demanded sharply, “what’s blocking the wheels of progress
now?”
“Boss,” Vinegar said bashfully “you an’ me made a trade--an’ I’s wucked
powerful hard--an’ ’pears to me like a few loose money----”
“Sure!” Rouke said, reaching into his pocket. “I presume you and Sudds
have earned five dollars each, but danged if I know what you did for
it!”
The two delighted darkies snatched the money, crammed it into their
pockets, and went stamping down the steps.
At the corner, Sour Sudds said:
“Elder, you go hunt up dem niggers Mr. Rouke tole you ’bout, an’ I’ll
rack over to de cotehouse an’ git dem license!”
“Dat’s right,” Vinegar boomed. “Dat white man done plum’ fergot dem
cotehouse papers, an’ dis is gwine be a real cotehouse wedding. I
fetches ’em off fine, Sudds. You oughter see me git active in a
mattermony pufformunce!”
The negroes separated, and three hours later, the wedding party had
assembled at the Shoofly church, and Rouke and Pellet arrived, each
with a camera.
Peter Pellet got his location, adjusted his machine fixed his side
lines and announced himself in readiness.
Rouke studied his characters, then began his instructions:
“Elder Atts, you and Sour Sudds are to come into the picture together
and await the arrival of the bride. Lalla Cordona comes in on the arm
of Diamond Hitch. All the rest of you folks bunch up together behind
the wedding party. Skeeter Butts, you establish yourself--stand out in
front of the invited guests, and register pain because you have lost
this beautiful bride. Now--ready--rehearse!”
Then Sour Sudds suddenly bethought himself, fumbled in his pocket,
trotted into the church and came out with a little square-topped
writing table and a chair, and placed them in full view of the camera.
“What the devil--” Rouke began to splutter like the fuse of a
cannon-cracker about to explode.
“Dis here table is fer de witnesses to sign de license, boss,” Sudds
explained, as he drew a paper out of his pocket, spread it out, and
then from the same capacious pocket brought forth a pen and a bottle
of ink. “Sheriff John Flournoy gimme dis paper an’ I come mighty nigh
fergettin’ it! He didn’t charge me nothin’ fer dis license, neither.”
“I see!” Rouke exclaimed. “Set that table back a little--that’s it! Now
you wedding guests come in and stand behind that table--that’s right!
Now ready--rehearse!”
The rehearsal was perfect.
“That’s fine!” Rouke exclaimed.
“Naw, suh, ’tain’t!” Sour Sudds growled. “Don’t de preacher be allowed
to say no words?”
“Sure!” Rouke told him, “but it is not necessary in a rehearsal!”
“Now, I tells you dis:” Sour Sudds responded in belligerent tones,
“when de picture is took ef Elder Atts ain’t ’lowed to say all de words
jes’ like dis wus a real weddin’, I ain’t gwine hab nothin’ to do wid
it!”
“He’ll say ’em all right, Sour,” Rouke assured him. “Keep your shirt
on--don’t disarrange your linen! Now we’re ready for the picture!
Vinegar, you marry these people just like you would in a church at a
sure-enough wedding. Ready--action--go!”
Sour Sudds laid his hand upon the elbow of Reverend Vinegar Atts and
the two marched into the picture. Sudds was trembling all over and his
lips twitched with nervousness so great that he constantly strove to
wipe the emotion away by scraping the back of his hand across his mouth.
The wedding guests moved into the picture, taking their locations
behind the little writing table, and Skeeter Butts established himself
in full view, his battered, swollen face--a result of the fracas
at the fishing camp the day before--successfully “registering” all
the emotions of pain, chagrin, anger, and sorrow at his loss of the
beautiful bride.
Hitch Diamond came into the picture with the bride on his arm--or
rather, by the arm. Hitch was regal in his walk and manner, and his
widespread, grinning mouth demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was
delighted to give the bride away; while Lalla Cordona, shy, drooping,
taking embarrassed glances from side to side, sometimes giving vent to
an insane snicker, was a perfect imitation of the real thing in dusky
brides.
She wore the proverbial bridal veil, wore it loosely, sloppily,
resembling a wet dishrag thrown over the top of a post. Her bridal
dress was popped open in the back where the buttons had burst, the lace
at the bottom of her skirt had been torn by her walk to the church
through the weeds.
That dress had evidently been, at one time, some young lady’s evening
gown, and the glossy black of Lalla’s bare shoulders and arms in the
glare of the noonday sun was not only startling--it was shocking. Short
white kid gloves covered the damsel’s hands, which she kept folded in
maidenly modesty across her breast.
Hitch held her by the arm with the air of a policeman conducting a
prisoner to the lock-up, and when he surrendered her to Sour Sudds,
Sour grabbed her elbow in the same official and authoritative manner.
“Dear-ly be-lub-bed!” Vinegar Atts bawled in a voice which could
be heard a mile, and whining his words with a peculiar, sing-song
intonation which no other people on earth can imitate:
“Dear-ly be-lub-bed, we am gathered togedder in de sight of Gawd an’ de
’socheation of dese witness to hitch togedder dis here man an’ dis here
woman in de holy bonduce of mattermony, which am a powerful good thing
but ain’t by nobody to be tuck up wid sudden-like, but atter prayerful
study on de wharfore an’ de outcome. Ef ary one of you niggers knows
a good cause why not dey should be married, bawl out right now, or
forever--hol’--yo’--peace!”
Skeeter Butts moved uneasily, opened his mouth to speak, then muttered
in a low tone:
“I s’pose dis is all a play-like, but it shore looks nachelly like de
plum’ real thing to me!”
After an impressive pause, Vinegar continued, addressing his remarks to
the principals:
“Ef ary one of you two niggers knows any jus’ an’ lawful an’ resomble
cause whyfo’ you shouldn’t git married bawl it out right now, or else
forever--hereinafter--hencefo’th--hol’--yo’--peace!”
No impediment being alleged, Vinegar Atts glared at Sour Sudds and
howled:
“Sour, is you gwine take dis woman to be yo’ reg’lar cotehouse wife;
is you gwine buy her vittles, chop her stove wood, pack her water, tote
her washings to an’ fro from de white folks’ house, an’ excusin’ all
yuther female womans, hang only onto her, so long as you bofe lives,
so--he’p--you--Gawd, hope you may die?”
“I is!” Sour Sudds replied.
“Laller, is you gwine take dis man to be you’ reg’lar cotehouse
husbunt; is you gwine cook his grub, patch his britches, clean up atter
him, keep him in chawin’ terbaccer, an’ excusin’ all yuther men’s take
in washin’ only fer him, an’ stick only to him so long as you bofe
lives togedder, so--he’p--you--Gawd?”
“I’m are!” Lalla snickered.
“J’ine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar bellowed. “Let us pray!”
There was a moment’s silence, then, in a tone which throbbed with
indignation and rebuke, Atts said to Sour and Lalla:
“You two niggers shet yo’ eyes! You got to shet yo’ eyes to pray!”
“De Good Book say, ‘Watch an’ pray,’” Sour protested.
Vinegar glowered at them until they shut their eyes; having satisfied
himself that they would observe the proprieties during his petition, he
howled:
“Oh, Lawdymussy! Pity dese here two people whut is done united deir
lives an’ deir forchines. Don’t let ’em got no deevo’ce, even if dey
wants it _bad_! An’ I shore hopes dar won’t be no quollin’ or fussin’
or fightin’. Amen!”
“O Lord!” Peter Pellet whispered in imitation of Vinegar, as he slowly
turned the crank of the camera. He spoke only loud enough for Rouke to
hear: “O Lord, deliver me henceforth and forever from such a film hog
as this big fat slob of a preacher!”
“March over an’ sign de obscribe!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, waving his
hand toward the little writing table. “Yes make yo’ mark, niggers! I’ll
tell de clerk whose marks dey am, an’ he’ll write down de names!”
When the last scribe had straightened up from the table and laid down
the pen Sour Sudds snatched up the license, walked over and waved it in
the face of Lalla Cordona, and in a voice which rang with triumph he
exclaimed:
“Now, you slick little nigger gal! I fit an’ bled an’ died fer you at
de fish camp yistiddy, an’ you throwed me down flat--but I got you
jes’ de same! Dis paper is a real, reg’lar license from de cotehouse,
Vinegar Atts is done said de words, de obscribe is done been signed,
an’ dat picture man is got a tintype of de whole weddin’! I got you!
You is my lawful cotehouse wife!”
With a low, gurgling cry which ended in a scream, Lalla Cordona
staggered backward, tottered as if about to fall, stumbled with
pain-stricken face toward the two men standing by the clicking camera,
then covered her face with her hands and sank, sobbing, to the ground.
There was a moment of intense silence while the surprising trick sank
into the dull minds of the negroes.
Then Skeeter Butts screamed like a maniac and hurled himself at Sour
Sudds. The two men went down under the mighty impact, and Sour dropped
the license from his hand. When they arose, Sour was struggling for his
life to wrest an automatic pistol from the hands of Skeeter, while the
little barkeeper, absolutely insane with fury, was fighting murderously
to free the weapon and to kill.
In the midst of the struggle the hand of one of the fighters touched
the trigger while the weapon was poised in the air. There were ten
shots and the dangerous gun was empty!
Screaming with baffled rage, Skeeter gouged and fought and bit, but
Sour was cooler and stronger, and slowly forced Skeeter back, until he
had him pressed against the little writing table. In a moment Skeeter’s
back would have been broken.
“Hey, dar!” Hitch Diamond bawled. “Let dat little coon alone!”
The whole mass of negroes made a forward movement toward Sudds, and the
darky saw that they would tear him to pieces. Releasing Skeeter, he
jumped to one side, sought for some place of flight, then ran into the
Shoofly church.
With a howl like a wolf-pack the mob rushed into the church after him.
Shirley Rouke seized his extra camera, ran behind the church and set it
in position just as the mob came pouring out of the rear door.
Sour was aiming for the deep woods in the rear of the church, but as he
started for them he confronted Skeeter with his automatic pistol. Sour
had no means of knowing whether Skeeter had reloaded his gun, so he
ducked and started at full speed around the church with the mob in hot
pursuit.
He dived into the church through the front door again, leaped out of a
side window and started for the woods. But the mob split into two parts
in the church, some of them going out of the rear door and some out of
the front, and they met half-way around the Shoofly church with Sour
Sudds in the middle.
Struggling, panting, fighting, finally screaming for help, Sour plunged
and kicked and bit and scratched, working his way around to the front
of the church again.
And there stood Lalla Cordona, her shapely hands
clutched across her heaving bosom, watching the
fray.
“He’p, Laller, fer Gawd’s sake! Dey’ll kill me!” Sour shrieked, with
arms outstretched toward her.
It was his last word.
He went down in the whirlpool of spinning arms and legs while the mob
snarled like wild hogs and tore at his prostrate body.
The sight sickened the girl and she turned away with face agonized,
horror-stricken. Then the wretched negro’s prayerful plea for help
galvanized her into action.
By the side of the church there was a piece of scantling about the size
and length of a baseball bat. Lalla picked it up and waded into that
mob like an Amazon.
Biff! the scantling struck a head and the owner of the head ceased
operations and sank heavily to the ground. Biff! Biff! Biff! Like
Father Time with his scythe, Lalla mowed the men down, or made such a
deep impression on their minds that they were glad to retire.
At last she worked her way down to where poor Sour Sudds lay. But he
did not lie there very long. Recalling his duplicity and deceit with
reference to the marriage ceremony, and appalled at the dexterity with
which Lalla handled her club, he rose from that spot, broke the world
record for a hundred yard dash, and disappeared in the woods, still
running.
Tickfall saw him no more.
Lalla turned, walked across the grass to where the marriage license lay
upon the ground and picked it up.
She glanced at it, laughed, then carried it up close to the camera and
held it so Rouke and Pellet could see it, and the all-seeing eye of the
clicking machine might record it on the film.
It was a legal document issued by the City of New Orleans, Parish of
Orleans, State of Louisiana.
It was signed and sealed by John Flournoy, Sheriff of Tickfall Parish,
and an incorrigible practical joker.
It was a Dog License!
VI
“CUT!”
Three days later, Peter Pellet entered the Tickfall bank and found
Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Sheriff John Flournoy sitting beside a desk
smoking and chatting.
“Good!” Peter exclaimed. “I am sent to find both of you gentlemen. Mr.
Shirley Rouke invites you down to the theater to watch a try-out of our
new picture. It’s local stuff, you know, and he wants home criticism.”
“We’ll come!” Gaitskill exclaimed.
Sitting within the little theater, the two men witnessed upon the
screen one of the rarest exhibitions in the world of the skill and
ingenuity of a motion picture director and producer--an exhibition
which caused the Gitagraft Company to make an amazing increase in
Shirley Rouke’s salary and which caused the world to add an astounding
laudation to his already great fame as an artist.
The picture was perfect in plot and execution, full of love, fighting,
tragedy, humor, and the two great scenes were the episodes we have
described at the fish camp and the wedding at the Shoofly church.
Through the picture there ran rare scenes of the Louisiana jungle
with the bear and deer in their native haunts, the wild hogs of the
Gaitskill hog-camp, the deep, still forests with their wide, cool
lanes, the sluggish bayous winding amid rank vegetation.
Two characters moved through the story, holding the thread of the
plot--Lalla Cordona and Sour Sudds, and their acting was perfect.
When the picture ended, the men were voluble in their expressions of
approbation.
Mr. Shirley Rouke walked over and shook hands with Colonel Tom
Gaitskill.
“Colonel,” he said earnestly, “if it had not been for your help I
could never have gotten that picture. I thank you ten thousand times.
Your suggestion that I take the picture without the negroes knowing
it by having some one in the know to lead ’em in their stunts was the
real, right dope! By George! Pete and I stalked those darkies through
the swamp just like we stalked the wild animals in the African jungle.
We followed them everywhere!”
“I don’t know one of those niggers in the picture,” Sheriff Flournoy
said. “Who is the bridegroom in the fake wedding?”
“He’s the only good negro movie actor in the world!” Rouke informed
him. “We employ him in our studio in New Orleans. He’s gone back home
now.”
“What bothers me,” Gaitskill said, “is that bride in the wedding
ceremony, who takes the lead in the whole picture. That woman is not a
nigger!”
“Well, _I guess not_!” Rouke exclaimed. “She’s a Spanish Moor. She’s
the highest salaried movie actress in the Gitagraft Company and has
acted in our pictures all around the world. In the North she was an
Esquimau, in Montana she was an Indian princess, in Tokio she was a
Geisha girl, in Hong-kong she was the emperor’s daughter, and in our
South Sea Island picture she took a seventy-foot dive off of a mountain
crag into the ocean. She can speak every language on earth, or if she
can’t she can fake it until a native would not know the diff----”
This dissertation was suddenly interrupted by a rich, sweet-toned,
dramatic voice, speaking the technical word which in the moving picture
world instructs the camera artist to stop action:
“Cut!”
The man whirled around and looked into the smiling face of Lalla
Cordona.
She had slipped into the theater unobserved to witness the first
try-out of the new picture.
She arose from her seat and advanced toward the men with all the grace
and beauty of the Arabian princess that she was, garbed gloriously in
the latest creations of Fifth Avenue modistes and milliners, a thing of
dainty, exquisite, infatuating beauty and loveliness whose dark skin
was as fine as spun silk, as delicate as cobweb, as glowing as polished
ebony, and whose whole body flamed with the soul, the magnetism, the
life of her.