The one negro in Tickfall who never dressed up was Pap Curtain. He was
the well-digger and the grave-digger of that community, and he carried
the marks of his trade upon him, clay on his clothes, on his hands, on
his hat. But to-night for the first time in the memory of men, Pap was
arrayed in gorgeous garments. He attracted much attention.
“Whoo-pee, Pap!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “I cain’t make up my mind
whether you is a young nigger beginnin’ to show yo’ age, or a ole nigger
tryin’ to look lesser dan yo’ real age.”
“I done heerd remarks like dat a plum’ plenty, Revun,” Pap snarled. “I
admits dat I’s gwine on seventy odd year ole.”
“I didn’t say you wusn’t, brudder,” Vinegar said propitiatingly. “But
whut do an ole nigger like you dress up like you fer? Dar ain’t no
fun’ral to go to an’ us ain’t habin’ no lodge meetin’ to-night.”
“Dey’s yuther reasons fer dressin’ up,” Pap said with a grin.
Vinegar slapped his hand to his head and a sudden remembrance
transformed his countenance.
“I like to fergot dat weddin’ complete! I onderstan’ now—you’s ragged
out fer de weddin’. I muss be gittin’ ole an’ fergitful. An’ I got some
questions to ax dat widder befo’ she steps off.”
Vinegar hurried away and Pap stood grinning after him. When the colored
clergyman was lost to sight in the crowd, Pap turned away, mumbling to
himself:
“Dat Vinegar Atts never did hab no sense. Now he raves an’ rambles when
he talks wid his mouth. De Shoofly needs a new up-to-date preacher.”
Pap walked over to the tabernacle, sought out Mrs. Solly Skaggs, and
bowing with exaggerated courtesy, he asked:
“Kin I dance dis here prize-dance wid you, Sister Solly?”
A shrill cackle of laughter rattled in Pap’s ear and he turned to look
into the sardonic face of Skeeter Butts.
“I done saved you, Sister Solly,” Skeeter snickered.
“You done got left, Pap,” Solly remarked. “I’s dancin’ fer de prize wid
Figger Bush.”
“You’s gwine to win de prize, too, Solly,” Skeeter said in a low tone.
“Dat is, ef you dances wid Figger. You cain’t git a showin’ dancin’ wid
Pap. Ole age an’ fatness makes a powerful poor combine in a dance.”
“We ain’t axin’ you fer no remarks,” Pap snarled, turning to Skeeter.
“Beg parding fer buttin’ in, Pap,” Skeeter laughed. “I wus jes’
surprised dat you wus takin’ up dancin’ at yo’ age.”
Skeeter turned away, and as Pap had failed to secure a partner, there
was nothing for him to do but retire from the floor, lamenting the fact
that he had paid a dime for the privilege of dancing and lost his money.
He sat down on a bench on the edge of the throng and gave himself up to
deep meditation.
“I got lef’ dat time,” he grumbled to himself. “But dis am jes’ de fust
day of de frolic. I got plenty time yit. Fur as I know, I’s de only man
aimin’ fer her, an’ de only onmarried man in de town.”
He lighted a pipe and sat smoking for five minutes. Then a new idea
came:
“Wash Jones is de high boss of dis show, an’ I reckin Wash knows de
widder. I oughter git Wash to he’p me hook her.”
At this point Popsy Spout wandered up to the bench and addressed Pap.
“I done loss my way in dese groun’s Pap,” he complained. “Dar’s so many
wagins an’ buggies an’ niggers dat I can’t find de cabin whar I sleeps
at.”
“You ain’t aimin’ to sleep now, is you?” Pap asked.
“I goes to bed reg’lar ’bout dis time.”
“Eve’ybody is stayin’ up to see de dance,” Pap said.
“I’s ag’in dancin’,” Popsy declared, with disgust in his tones. “Me an’
none of my kinnery follers atter de sinful dance. I done teached ’em
better.”
“Teached who better?” Pap asked quickly, planning for revenge.
“Figger an’ Scootie,” Popsy declared. “Bofe of dem young folks abstains
from de dance.”
“Who say dey does?”
“I says,” Popsy replied impatiently.
“Whut would you do ef you wuster see Figger dancin’ to-night, Popsy?”
Pap asked in wheedling tones.
“I’d bust his head wid my stick an’ I wouldn’t let him inherit none of
my dollars, an’ I’d drive him an’ his nigger wife outen my cabin,” the
old man announced irately.
“I’s kinder skeart Figger is a deceitful nigger, Popsy,” Pap said in a
bitter voice. “I happens to know dat he is gwine dance in de prize-dance
to-night.”
“’Tain’t so,” Popsy snapped. “I done tole Figger to go to bed.”
The music started in the pavilion and Pap rose to his feet.
“Come wid me, Popsy,” Pap said. “I’ll show you dat Figger ain’t as good
as you thinks he is.”
On the edge of the crowd Popsy shaded his age-dimmed eyes with the palm
of his hand and watched the swaying forms until he recognized Figger
Bush. Figger’s dancing partner was the easiest thing to see on the
floor, but Figger was completely eclipsed at intervals in the
convolutions of the dance.
If Mrs. Solly Skagg had been white, she would long ago have been signed
up by some enterprising showman and her monstrosities exhibited to every
community in the country. But being of color, she furnished a free show
to all the colored people in her vicinity, and to-night Figger Bush
looked like a pickaninny swinging on to a balloon and trying to drag it
to the ground. Mrs. Skaggs was active, not graceful, and most of the
time Figger’s feet were in the air and he was swinging onto the ample
form of his partner with both hands.
The crowd saw the fun and went into hysterics. Popsy Spout saw the
exhibition and became hysterical also, but for other reasons. He walked
forward and pounded the floor with his patriarchal staff and screeched
Figger’s name, demanding that he desist at once and go to bed. But four
big horns in the Tickfall brass band were blaring as the performers
tried in vain to blow out their brains through the mouthpieces, and
Popsy’s whining voice was like the note of a cricket in a storm.
The old man finally snorted his disgust, expressing his sentiments for
the amusement of the few around him who could hear, and tried to push
his way out of the crowd. But they were packed densely around him, and
in spite of his wishes, Popsy had to stay and see the rewarding of the
prizes.
Wash Jones stepped out and made the announcement:
“Dis am de fust night of de prize dancin’ an’ so I’s bestowin’ de prize
on whut I calls de lucky-name dancers. I done wrote de name of eve’y
couple on a card an’ put de names in dis sack. I now proceeds to shake
’em up an’ will put my han’ in dis sack an’ draw out one card. Ever
who’s name is writ on de card is de winner of dis dance, no matter ef
dey kin dance or not. To-morrer night we will hab reg’lar app’inted
judges an’ nobody cain’t win dat cain’t dance.”
He thrust his hand into the bag, stirred the cards around for a moment,
created suspense by fumbling with the bag and making jocose remarks to
entertain the crowd. At last he found the card pinned to the bottom of
the bag, took out the pin, and brought forth the names of the winners.
“Figger Bush an’ Mrs. Solly Skaggs!”
There was a moment of intense silence which made Wash Jones wince with
fear. Then a howl of derisive laughter swept over the crowd and every
dancing couple was completely satisfied. All thought that mere chance
had determined the selection, and all knew that Solly and Figger were
the worst dancers in the world.
The lucky couple advanced and received the prizes, bowed to the derisive
crowd and started to retire. Then Popsy Spout advanced to the center of
the dancing-floor, waving his big staff like a baseball bat, his high,
shrill, whining voice cutting the silence like a knife.
“Figger Bush, you is a wuthless, lyin’, deceitful cuss! I done advised
you to abandon dancin’ an’ you promised to do it. I tole you to go home
an’ go to bed, an’ now you done put on yo’ clothes an’ snuck outen yo’
cabin an’ come down here to dis sinful dance. You git on home an’ when I
comes I’s gwine hide you wid dis stick!”
“Don’t make no scenery, Popsy,” Figger pleaded. “I didn’t really intend
to dance but dis here woman betrayed me into treadin’ a tune or two wid
her an’ I couldn’t resist.”
“You means dat you wus tempted by dis here woman?” Popsy whined.
“Dat’s whut,” Figger replied solemnly.
“You go home an’ repent an’ refawm!” Popsy shrieked. “Do it befo’ de
good Lawd draps a brickbat on yo’ head outen de sky! Git!”
Figger pocketed his nickel-plated cigarette holder and moved away.
Popsy turned and surveyed the ample proportions of Mrs. Solly Skaggs.
“You needs a good steady husbunt to keep you back from yo’ evil ways,
sister,” he announced. “You didn’t hab no call to lead my little Figger
Bush into evil ways.”
“I won’t do it no more, Popsy,” Mrs. Skaggs said easily.
Old Popsy Spout growled like a senile bear and moved away. On the edge
of the platform Pap was waiting for him, feeling well satisfied with
himself and the revenge he had achieved.
“Pap, Figger Bush is done cut hisse’f off from me ferever,” the old man
snapped. “I’s gwine drive him an’ his wife outen my house an’ home.”
“You’ll git pretty lonesome, won’t you, Popsy?” Pap asked idly.
“Naw!” the old man snapped. “I’s gwine marry agin right away.”
“Who you done picked fer de gigglin’ bride, Popsy?” Pap asked with utter
indifference.
“I done picked de widder Solly Skaggs,” Popsy proclaimed. “I’s gittin
ole an’ blind an’ she’s big enough fer me to see as fur as my eyesight
goes. By dis time nex’ year, she’ll be too fat to dance an’ us’ll bofe
be of de same mind on dat. She needs some sottled husbunt to lead her
outen de error of her ways. Excusin’ dat, she’s collected her insurance
money an’ I ain’t got no real good objections to a little more dough. I
needs it fer my ole age.”
He moved away leaving Pap Curtain gasping for breath, stupefied by utter
amazement.