“Skeeter, kin you rickoleck in your mind about a nigger man who called
hisse’f Wash Jones?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter answered. “He snuck in here about a year ago an’
tried to refawm Tickfall cullud sawciety. Us made him Fust Grand
Organizer of de Nights of Darkness Lodge fer de whole worl’ an’ sont him
out of town on his fust gran’ organize. Ain’t seed him since dat time.”
“He’s done snuck in agin,” Figger informed him. “He’s all here—de same
flossy vest an’ de same big watch-chain ’thout no watch to it, an’ de
same mouthful of chawin’ terbacker. But his mouth is done changed.”
“Whut done happened to his mouth?”
“He’s growed two long mustaches whut comes down de sides of his nose
plum’ below his chin. He looks like a nigger whut had swallowed two
cat-squirrels an’ lef’ deir tails hangin’ out!”
“Whut you reckin he done dat fer?” Skeeter asked.
“Done disguised hisse’f.”
“He ain’t refawmin’ nothin’, is he?” Skeeter asked uneasily.
“Naw, suh. He’s organizin’. He done throwed up his Nights of Darkness
Lodge job an’ is cornductin’ health resorts fer cullud pussons.”
“Dar ain’t no sick niggers in Tickfall,” Skeeter said with relief. “He’s
done busted in bizziness an’ don’t know it.”
“Dar ain’t no real sick niggers,” Figger agreed. “But plenty of us feels
jes’ tol’able an’ b’lieves dat we needs a rest.”
“Restin’ time an’ Sunday comes nachel wid niggers,” Skeeter grinned.
“You ain’t sweeped out dis saloon fer about six mont’s.”
“Cain’t sweep her out now, Skeeter,” Figger replied hastily. “Fer a
fack, I done come to ax you fer a lay-off fer about two weeks. I needs a
change.”
“Wharabouts you gwine change to?” Skeeter asked grouchily.
“Out to de ole tabernacle an’ de prize-fight, picnic, baseball-groun’s,
whar Brudder Wash is organizin’ his health resort.”
“How come I ain’t heerd tell ’bout dat?” Skeeter asked.
“He’s been keepin’ it sly because he wus skeart somebody else would
think it up an’ beat him to it,” Figger explained. “He done leased de
ole camp-groun’s complete, fixed up all de little shacks whar niggers
kin stay, hired Shin Bone to run de resteraw, made a dancin’-floor in de
ole tabernacle, rented a brass band, an’ is gittin’ ready to rake in de
dollars.”
“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed in dismay. “I been livin’ in dis town all
my days an’ I never thunk of dat gorgeous idear in my whole life.”
“It shore is a dandy notion,” Figger said with admiration. “Dar’s fo’
springs of water, a great big lake to fish an’ swim in, plenty woods an’
play-groun’s.”
“Gosh! Jes’ think of de money dat’s gwine miss my pants’ pocket,”
Skeeter sighed.
“Wash specifies dat dar is a Cooney Island in New Yawk an’ he’s gwine
hab a Coon Island in Tickfall.”
“Dat shore is put somepin over on me,” Skeeter mourned.
“Ef you ain’t got no real good objections, I goes out dar to-night an’
stays a week,” Figger remarked.
“I don’t like de notion of keepin’ dis saloon while you gallivants off
to a nigger frolic,” Skeeter protested.
“But I gotter go,” Figger assured him.
“Nobody ain’t gotter go no place onless he wants to, excusin’ jail,”
Skeeter grumbled.
Figger Bush ended the argument by rising from the table, knocking the
ashes from his pipe, and retiring to a little room in the rear of the
bar to dress. Ten minutes later he came out with a new suit of clothes,
a sunburst tie, a high collar and most expansive cuffs, and all the
other paraphernalia of a dead-game sport out for a vacation.
“I hates to leave you, Skeeter,” Figger remarked apologetically. “I’s
sorry you is got a grouch. But ef I don’t show up at de tabernacle my
grandpaw won’t like it.”
“How come you is so suddent oneasy about displeasin’ Popsy Spout?”
Skeeter wanted to know.
“Dat ole man is got money in de bank. Some day he’s gwine haul off an’
die. When he do, he’ll inherit me his house an’ all his cash spondulix.
Atter dat happens, I’ll buy one-half of dis Hen-Scratch saloon.”
“Dat ole gizzard says he’s gwine live till he’s one hundred year ole,”
Skeeter reminded him.
“Dat means you got to wait thirty year fer yo’ money.”
“Mebbe he’s done miscalculated ’bout how long he’s gwine hang on de
bush,” Figger grinned. “I been pussuadin’ him to take a little swim in
de Cooley Lake eve’y atternoon when we gits out dar, an’ you know dar’s
allergaters in dat lake whut kin swaller Joner an’ de whale.”
“Ef a allergater swallered Popsy, he’d treat him jes’ like de whale done
Joner—he’d git dat nigger off his stomick as soon as he could,” Skeeter
growled.
“’Tain’t so, Skeeter,” Figger argued earnestly. “When one of dese here
Loozanny allergaters swallers a nigger, he crawls out on a mud-bank an’
goes to sleep an’ fergits all about dat cullud pusson in his midst.”
“Ef I could git my wish, I’d be glad if one dem things would chaw up you
an’ Popsy, too,” Skeeter retorted.
Figger sat down and lighted a cigarette, wondering how he could placate
Skeeter for leaving him alone with the saloon. He could think of nothing
else to say, so he changed the theme a little:
“Whut bothers my mind a little, Skeeter, is de fack dat Popsy ain’t got
no real good notion whut kind of doin’s will be at de tabernacle. He
remembers how ’twus befo’ de war when de white folks helt
religium-meetin’s out dar. He wants me to go an’ attend de religium
services so me an’ Scootie will git gooder dan we are.”
Skeeter brightened up and laughed.
“Dat means de joke is on you an’ Scootie, Figger,” he guffawed. “I’d
druther hab de seben-year itch wid nothin’ to scratch wid—I’d druther be
a drag-log tied to a houn’-dawg—dan listen to dat ole Popsy fussin’
’bout how good things useter wus an’ how much wusser things is now. Go
to it, Figger! You got my permission fer a week’s leave-off.”
“I been tellin’ you I warn’t so awful anxious to go,” Figger reminded
him.
“You ain’t ’pressed dat fack on my mind very hard,” Skeeter replied. “I
wants you to come in eve’y mawnin’ an’ barkeep. You kin go out an’ enjoy
Popsy at night.”
“I’ll be in to-morrer mawnin’ early,” Figger answered, as he left.
But Figger did not appear in the saloon until the next day at noon.
Skeeter had spent the time thinking up some especially cutting things to
say to his partner, but Figger entered the place like a personified
calamity and Skeeter forgot all his unkind words in an intense curiosity
to know what had happened.
“I done run up on somepin awful bad, Skeeter,” Figger groaned. “Pap
Curtain is fixin’ to start a saloon.”
“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “De Hen-Scratch has been de onliest cullud
saloon in Tickfall fer twenty year. Now dis here Pap Curtain is aimin’
to rival us out of bizzness.”
“Dat’s de way de rabbit p’ints his nose,” Figger assured him.
“Whar do he git de money?” Skeeter asked.
“He’s makin’ arrangements to marrify it,” Figger wailed. “Dar’s a great
big ole cow of a woman out dar whut owns five hundred dollars. Her paw
an’ maw is talkin’ it aroun’ an’ dey’s huntin’ somebody dat’ll marry her
fer her money.”
“Is she as bad lookin’ as all dat?”
“Shore is. She looks like a puddin’ dat riz too high an’ spreads out too
much. She kinder comes outen her clothes an’ rolls over de edges of a
chair an’ de big of her ’pears like it’s boilin’ over all de sides all
de time.”
“I ketch on,” Skeeter grinned. “She jes’ out-niggers herse’f by bein’ so
fat.”
“Pap’ll take her ef he kin git her,” Figger sighed. “He ain’t
pertickler. He wants money to start a saloon.”
“Us’ll bofe close up dis saloon to-night an’ go out an’ take a look on,”
Skeeter announced. “Dis town kin do without two nigger saloons. One is a
plum’ plenty. Who is dis here nigger woman anyhow?”
“She’s ole Isaiah Gaitskill’s stepchile,” Figger informed him. “She
takes atter her maw in fat-hood. She’s a widder woman an’ her deceasted
husbunt left her a lot of insurance dollars.”
“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed in desperation. “Pap Curtain an’ a widder woman!
Two ag’in’ one—I ain’t got no show. Life ain’t fitten to live no more.”