In Tickfall, religion was reduced to the least common divisor. That is
to say, there was one church for the white people and one for the black.
The white children felt that they were imposed upon by the older and
more dominating members of their families in that they were made to go
to Sunday-school, whereas, the black children were permitted by their
parents to grow up in that ignorance which is bliss.
Org had no particular love for religious instruction. All the time that
he was trying to learn a sufficient portion of that day’s lesson to
satisfy his teacher, he was thinking of a buzzard’s nest which Little
Bit had told him about, a buzzard’s nest which contained two baby
buzzards, both of them white as snow. If that buzzard’s nest had been
concealed in some Sunday-school book—but Org never found anything
interesting in a Sunday-school book. What little he knew of that day’s
portion of the Scripture had been imparted to him by the laborious
efforts of his sister, and he was now walking down the hill toward the
church, mumbling his newly acquired information to himself.
“Whar you gwine, Marse Org?”
“Sunday-school. Come and go with me.”
“Ain’t fitten,” Little Bit giggled. “A little black coon like me ain’t
got no place in a white chu’ch. Excusin’ dat, I janitors in a saloon,
an’ Sunday-schools ain’t made fer such.”
“I’ll tell you all I know about the lesson,” Org urged. “Listen:
Methusalem—oldest man ever was: nine hundred and sixty-nine years
old—was not, for God took him—gathered to his fathers——”
“How ole you say he wus gwine on when he died?” Little Bit asked.
“Nine hundred and sixty-nine years.”
“Whoop-ee! Whut did de ole gizzard die of when he died?”
“I dunno,” Org replied. “He died of smoking cigarettes, I reckon. If you
go with me, we’ll ask the teacher.”
“I mought stan’ outside behime de chu’ch while you axed,” Little Bit
said doubtfully. “Who am dis here teacher?”
“Captain Kerley Kerlerac.”
“I ain’t gwine to no Sonday-school to ax my boss nothin’,” Little Bit
said positively. “Dat white man don’t ’low no niggers to pesticate him
wid ’terrogations. I knows!”
Org was not willing to part with his companion. He could have a great
deal more fun with Little Bit than he could contemplating the career of
a man who had lived nearly a thousand years and had been dead for
several thousand more. Besides, he was a little skeptical of the alleged
age of that old party. So when Org came to a corner where he should have
turned to the right, he turned to the left, and from that time on there
was a vacant chair in the Sunday-school.
The old cotton-shed on the edge of the Gaitskill sand pit was the first
thing to attract the attention of the pair. In that storehouse, they
found an old cotton-truck, and a door which had been torn off the hinges
and was lying on the floor near the office.
They found amusement for a while by pulling each other around on the
truck. Then they sat down in the door to cool off and gazed out over an
expanse of water which formed a shallow pond in the sand pit.
“If we could get this old broken-down door over to that pond, we could
have a raft to ride on,” Org remarked.
“’Tain’t no trouble,” Little Bit replied. “Jes’ load de door onto de
cotton-truck an’ push de truck down to de pond.”
“You are certainly intell’gent, Little Bit,” Org exclaimed admiringly as
he sprang to his feet.
“Pushin’ things an’ liftin’ things an’ loadin’ things—dat’s a cullud
pusson’s nachel-bawn job,” Little Bit chuckled. “’Tain’t no trouble fer
a nigger to think up dat.”
“Let’s get this door on the truck and move our raft,” Org urged.
It was not hard to do. The pine door was not very heavy, and from the
time they got it out of the building, the route was down hill to the
edge of the pond. They pushed the truck into the water, easily floated
the door off, and then tugged mightily to drag the truck back to the
empty storehouse again.
They found two long poles which would serve to steer with, and raced
back to the edge of the pond and climbed aboard their raft.
The door sustained them just as long as most of their weight was on
their poles, and they were trying to push off. At last they worked their
raft out to about four feet of water and felt free to lift their
steering-poles and ride.
Then that door slowly sank under their weight until the water was up to
their knees, to their waists, to their shoulders. It stopped in its
downward journey when it rested on the sandy bottom, and the two lads
stood on it, looking at each other with the utmost astonishment, raising
their chins to keep the water out of their mouths.
“You done got yo’ nice Sunday clothes all wet,” Little Bit sighed.
“Yours are wet, too,” Org retorted.
“Dis here is my eve’y-day suit. I ain’t got no all-Sonday gyarments. I
wears dese ladylike clothes all de time.”
“I’m sorry you spoilt your only suit,” Org sympathized.
“’Tain’t spiled—it’s jes’ wet,” Little Bit replied. “Whut is us gwine do
now?”
“We’re both wet. We might as well have a good time,” Org suggested
philosophically.
“I likes good times an’ dis’n is started off real good,” Little Bit
laughed. “You git offen dis ole door an’ le’s see ef it will hold me
up.”