“A CUSSIN’ CASE”
Half an hour later Skeeter and Figger met in the Hen-Scratch saloon to
discuss the events of the evening.
“We shore knocked de skin offen Pap Curtain’s nose to-night, Figger,”
Butts exulted. “Dat’s de way so keep on. We’ll show dat ole man dat he
cain’t beat us at dis game.”
“Never no more fer me, Skeeter,” Figger said earnestly. “I got to repent
an’ refawm an’ dodge brickbats. Atter you dances one time wid a ole
sook-cow like Solly, ’tain’t no trouble to repent an’ refawm. But I’s
shore much ableeged fer dis cigareet holder. I been needin’ one fer a
long time.”
“You gimme dat cigareet holder back,” Skeeter snapped. “Us kin use it
fer all de yuther prizes, an’ I proposes to git my money back by smokin’
it myself.”
“I knowed you warn’t gwine be lib’ral wid yo’ gifts,” Figger said, as he
reluctantly produced the holder and passed it to Skeeter. “I oughter
lost dat prize befo’ I showed up here.”
“You kin git de good outen it by watchin’ me smoke it,” Skeeter
snickered. “An’ ef we bust Pap’s plans about startin’ a saloon, mebbe
I’ll let you smoke it a few times to keep yo’ feelin’s from gittin’
hurt.”
At that moment the door of the saloon opened and old Isaiah Gaitskill
came across the room to where the two men sat at a table. Isaiah was one
of the landmarks of Tickfall, withered and wrinkled and dry like the
hull of a walnut, his gray hair fitting his head like a rubber cap, over
eighty years of age, but as hard and active as a soldier.
“Ole fellers like you oughter be in bed, Isaiah,” Skeeter announced as
he waved the visitor to a chair.
“Fellers nearly as ole as me is not only stayin’ up late but dey is
figgerin’ ’bout gittin’ married,” Isaiah replied with a grin.
“Pap Curtain ain’t nigh as old as you,” Figger retorted.
“’Tain’t Pap I’s alludin’ to,” Isaiah answered. “It’s brudder Popsy
Spout whut’s studyin’ mattermony.”
Many things had happened to those two young men in their variegated and
adventurous careers, but nothing had ever happened to produce such a
shock as Isaiah’s announcement. Figger uttered a startled exclamation,
started to rise from his seat, then sank back with his chin in his
collar and collapsed like a punctured tire. Skeeter Butts pawed the air
in front of his face with both hands as if fighting off invisible
insects; he made inarticulate noises in his throat, shut his teeth down
so hard on his celluloid nickel-plated cigarette holder that he split it
for two inches, and then exclaimed despairingly:
“Oh, whoosh!”
The sound was like the feeble exhaust of an automobile that is utterly
worn out and broken down and never intends to be serviceable again.
“I come aroun’ to ax you-alls is Popsy still got dat thousan’ dollars in
Marse Tom Gaitskill’s bank,” Isaiah proceeded, taking no notice of the
terrible effect of his announcement.
“Whoosh!” Skeeter sighed again.
“I got a notion dat Popsy’s suttinly still got it,” Isaiah continued.
“Dat ole monkey don’t spen’ no money—he saves it.”
“Whoosh!” Skeeter muttered.
There was a long silence, the men looking at each other without a word.
After a while Isaiah began to drum on the table with his horny
fingernails, and the sound was as annoying and as startling in the
stillness as the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of a woodpecker trying to drill a hole
through a tin roof. Slowly Figger recovered his power of speech. He
glared at Skeeter uttering one intelligible sentence:
“You is to blame fer dis!”
And then he began to “cuss.” It was an edifying exhibition to one
interested in the use of forcible words, interested in the efficiency
attained through long practice and experience, and interested in knowing
how copious is the English language in terms of profanity, blasphemy,
and execration.
Isaiah listened, casting a glance of admiration toward Figger now and
then as he heard some especially pregnant phrases of vituperation, then
he said:
“Save a few cuss-words fer future use, Figger. You’ll need ’em.”
“Keep on, Figger,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Dis here is a cussin’
case an’ you ain’t done de case justice even yit.”
“I ain’t gwine stay here an’ listen,” Isaiah snapped. “I jes’ stopped by
to ax about Popsy’s finances. Ef he’s still got de dough he had when he
arrived up at dis town, he’s got twicet as much as de gal he’s studin’
to marry an’ dat’ll make a good match.”
“Hol’ on, Isaiah,” Figger wailed. “Who did you say Popsy wus aimin’ to
marry?”
“I ain’t specified,” Isaiah grinned, reaching for his hat and preparing
to go. “But I don’t mind tellin’—it’s my stepchile by my fourth wife’s
fust marriage, Mrs. Solly Skaggs!”
The exclamation which Figger uttered at this information indicated that
he had exhausted all the treasuries of speech: language could go no
further.
“I tole you to save some cuss-words,” Isaiah grinned.
Skeeter groaned, fanning himself with his hat.
“Dar won’t be enough room in Popsy’s little cabin fer Figger an’ his
wife an’ Popsy an’ his wife,” he meditated aloud. “Solly is a cabin-full
all by herse’f.”
“Popsy is shore gittin’ plenty fer his money,” Isaiah chuckled. “I’s
glad she’s ended up dat way. Dat fat gal kin eat as much as fo’teen
chillun an’ a cow an’ a calf. I don’t hanker to suppote her.”
“How come Popsy made up his mind to ack a fool so suddent?” Skeeter
wailed.
“He seen Figger dancin’ wid Solly an’ he don’t approve of dat exoncise.
He’s marryin’ Solly to refawm her an’ to git him a new housekeeper
because he’s gwine chase Figger an’ Scootie outen his cabin fer
deceivin’ him.”
Sometimes when you step on the shell of a dead turtle it makes a
ridiculous squeak. Figger made a noise like that.
“Bad luck, Figger,” Skeeter said sympathetically, as he took the broken
nickel-plated cigarette holder from his mouth and handed it to Figger.
“I gives you dis little present to show my sad feelin’s todes you.”
Figger’s mental perturbation was such that he stuck it in his mouth,
struck a match and tried to light it without placing a cigarette on the
end.
“Dis is awful,” he sighed.
“I reckin Popsy is expeckin’ me back about now,” Isaiah remarked as he
arose. “As Solly’s nachel gardeen, he axed me to speak up to Solly an’
find out ef she wus willin’. But fust I come to see how Popsy wus fixed
financial. Solly ain’t hankerin’ to take in no white folks’ washin’s to
suppote a ole gizzard like Popsy.”
“Whar is Popsy now?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“He’s at Shin Bone’s resterant here in town,” Isaiah replied.
“Us will go wid you, Isaiah!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Ef dar’s a weddin’
plannin’ I wants to he’p it along.”
The three men hurried to the eating-house as rapidly as Figger’s feeble
knees could carry him. Skeeter had to support his friend by holding his
arm, for all Figger’s vital force was gone. They found Popsy the only
patron of the place and he was using a long table in the middle of the
room, not for the consumption of food, but for a bed! He was stretched
out full length on the table, his arm under his head for a pillow, his
rusty stove-pipe hat placed beside him.
“Dis here bridegroom is takin’ a nap,” Skeeter snickered, as he walked
in and sat down at the table beside the sleeping man. The others saw no
reason to arouse him from his slumbers, so they sat down beside him and
looked at the sleeper. Skeeter walked to another table, picked up a
stalk of celery and brought it back and placed it in Popsy’s hand where
it rested upon his breast.
Taking off his hat, he placed it with exaggerated solemnity over his
heart and sighed with pitiable sadness:
“Don’t he look nachel? Ain’t dat a sweet smile on his face? He looks
jes’ like I seed him yistiddy—ain’t changed a bit!”
He walked over to Figger, leaned down, and whispered:
“Wus you acquainted wid de corp’?”
“I knowed him real good,” Figger answered, glaring at the prostrate
form. “He shore wus a devilish ole cranky nigger.”
“When does de fun’ral orgies take place?” Skeeter whispered. “Is de
Revun Vinegar Atts gwine ’fishiate at de ’terment? Po’ ole man—atter all
his troubles, he is at rest!”
A slovenly waitress approached the whispering men, yawned prodigiously,
and gazed at Popsy with a stupid face.
“I wants you-alls to wake up Popsy an’ tote him off home to bed. Dis
here ain’t no nursery. I’s sleepy an’ it’s time to shet up dis house.”
Pap Curtain, on his way home from Coon Island, saw the men gathered
around Popsy and entered.
“Whut ails Popsy, brudders?” he exclaimed. “Is de ole man sick?”
“Naw,” Skeeter snapped. “No such good luck. Mebbe ef he sleeped here
till mawnin’ he’d roll off dis table an’ break his fool neck!”
“He’s love-sick,” old Isaiah cackled. “He gittin’ ready to marry.”
“Shore!” Pap snarled. “He tripped up my legs an’ throwed me down. I wus
in hopes Popsy wus sick—less shove him off dis table an’ kill him!”
Then another man entered the restaurant. He was a fat, pot-bellied
negro, his head bald except for two tufts of hair growing over his ears
which made him look like a big fat-faced mule wearing a blind bridle.
“Hello, brudders!” the Rev. Vinegar Atts bellowed. “How come you-alls
didn’t stay at de weddin’?”
“Never heard tell about dat’n,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Who is de victims?”
“Brudder Wash Jones an’ Sister Solly Skaggs!”
“Whoo-pee-ee!” Figger Bush screamed. “De Lawd wus shorely wid me. Wash
is done saved my life!”
Figger’s wild yell of exultation aroused Popsy from his slumbers. He sat
up and rubbed his eyes. Then he saw Isaiah Gaitskill.
“I done decided not to marry Solly, Brudder Isaiah,” he whined. “I tuck
a little nap an’ I dreamt a dream dat Calline, my fust wife, come to me
an’ warned me to beware of widders. She said dey wus awful treach’rous
an’ deceivin’.”
“Calline is got it right, Popsy,” Pap sighed. “My little romance is
snipped in de bud.”
“Wash an’ Solly had dat case fixed up in N’ Awleens,” Vinegar told them.
“Solly wouldn’t marry Wash onless he had de same amount of money dat she
inherited from her husbunt. So Wash arrived in Tickfall, started a Coon
Island like N’ Yawk has, collected five hundred admissions at one dollar
per each, married Solly an’ lit out on de midnight train.”
“Whut becomes of dat Coon Island?” Pap asked.
“Wash axed me to hand dat whole shebang over to you fer a consolation
prize,” Vinegar answered.
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