I
“Dis here nigger Uplift League is shore gittin’ active, Figger,” Skeeter
Butts remarked one morning as he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and
seated himself at a table beside his partner.
Figger Bush sat with his knife-blade poised over the top of the pine
table, trying to devise some new design to carve upon that piece of
furniture. He showed his lack of interest in the league by replying:
“Dem Uplifters ain’t gwine lift me up. I’s a heavy-weight.”
“You always wus a sinker,” Skeeter smiled, as he watched Figger sketch
the outline of an Indian face in the soft pine with his knife-point
before beginning to carve. “You jes’ nachelly went down ever since I
knowed you.”
“Dese Uplifters is uppity, biggity, high-brow niggers. Dey’s always
jawin’ about high cullud sawciety, an’ who b’longs an’ who ain’t b’long.
Dey ain’t black folks; dey’s play-like whites.”
“Dey’s actin’ an’ playin’ like niggers now,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey’s in
a awful row ’bout who’s gwine be elected to de high-up offices of de
Uplift. I never seed de beat of de politickin’ dey’s doin’.”
“Nobody ain’t politicked me yit,” Figger murmured, as his knife slowly
moved through the soft pine. “I reckin votes ain’t fetchin’ so awful
high price.”
“Dem Uplifters is gwine uplift de price befo’ de election is over,”
Skeeter told him. “Ef I had a real loud voice an’ could holler an’ bawl
an’ whoop, I’d run fer presidunt of de league myself.”
“You jes’ fergit dem notions off yo’ mind,” Figger growled. “I ain’t
aimin’ to keep dis saloon an’ do all de odd jobs while you yelps aroun’
like a kicked dawg about whut oughter be done fer de poor, oppressed
cullud race.”
“But de Uplifters is done fergot de po’, oppressed cullud niggers an’ is
thinkin’ up cuss names to call each yuther wid,” Skeeter explained.
“Some Uplifters ain’t in favor of de way de yuther uplifts is liftin’,
an’ dey’s tryin’ to git good riddunce of Mustard Prophet an’ put Pap
Curtain in his place as presidunt.”
“Pap Curtain is a slick-head nigger,” Figger growled. “He’s heap mo’
crookeder dan a dawg’s hind leg. Nobody cain’t never git Pap straight.”
“Dat’s de kind of man to git elected,” Skeeter snickered. “It’ll take a
slick-head to beat Mustard.”
“You real shore dey ain’t gwine run you fer presidunt?” Figger asked
suspiciously.
“Dey ain’t got no notion of dat kind,” Skeeter replied. “Dey don’t see
me at all. Dis here is gwine be a real election an’ it takes a loud
speecher to git votes. My voice is too squeaky an’ my size is ag’in’ me.
A little runt like me wid a screech-owl voice couldn’t git elected as
free-meat man in a dawg town.”
“I’s glad you’s so modest, Skeeter,” his friend grinned. “My idear is
dat dis saloon is gwine be de chiefest headquarters of bofe sides of de
Uplifters. We’ll rake in a heap of dollars by bein’ puffeckly neuter in
dis race. Ef we takes sides, we loses money.”
“Dat’s so,” Skeeter agreed. “But I heerd Pap Curtain talkin’ down in
Dirty-Six an’ Pap got de right notion. He says dat we need new blood in
de Uplift League. He says dem officers whut’s got de honors now jes’
holds deir jobs an’ don’t do nothin’. He says our race is sinkin’ down
because dem Uplifters ain’t liftin’ up. He says dat de pusson who will
git charge of dat league an’ make it active an’ yellervate de race will
be Tickfall’s most leadin’ cullud sitson.”
“I wouldn’t objeck to bein’ de leadin’ member of de Tickfall blacks,”
Figger sighed. “But I’s like you—I ain’t got de voice. I’s got de heft
on you, but I don’t weigh as much as Hitch Diamond or Vinegar Atts, an’
ef weight an’ voice is gwine win out, Ginny Babe Chew is got us all beat
a mile.”
“Dat’s a funny thing about dis here race,” Skeeter chuckled. “Ginny Babe
Chew is a runnin’, too!”
“Uhuh!” Figger grunted. “Dat means dat eve’y Uplifter in de league is
gwine have a rep onless dey votes fer her. Dat ole woman knows all de
sins all de niggers in Tickfall is cormitted. She tells ’em, too. An’
when it comes to callin’ cuss-names, all us is new beginners to Ginny
Babe. Dat gal’s had expe’unce.”
“I ain’t gwine mess wid it, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he thought
uneasily of the things Ginny might tell about him. “I don’t want my rep
ruint by Ginny Babe. Us’ll bofe be neuter an’ keep dis saloon.”
At that moment the door of the saloon was pushed open and a diminutive
darky named Little Bit entered.
Little Bit had apparently robbed a woman’s wardrobe for his wearing
apparel. For coat, he wore the upper half of a woman’s coat-suit, the
tail flapping down around his knees and the sleeves rolled up to his
elbows to give exit to his short arms. For a shirt, he wore a woman’s
shirt-waist, silk material, flowered and lacy and frilled. We presume
that the woman’s husband had contributed the masculine portion of the
attire, for the trousers had originally belonged to a man much larger in
the waist and much longer in the legs than Little Bit, and the pants
were hitched about his middle and cut off at the knees. For hose, he
wore—here I cross my heart and hope I may die—a woman’s purple-silk
stockings, ending at the feet with a pair of ladies’ pumps, gray suède
in color with high French heels!
“Whar in de name of mud is you been at?” Skeeter Butts howled as he
glared at his wristwatch. “Is you wuckin’ in dis saloon or is you ain’t?
You expeck me to pay you wages when you comes here at mighty nigh
dinner-time an’ aims to do a day’s wuck?”
“I been listenin’ to Pap Curtain make a speech,” Little Bit snickered.
“He’s got a chunk of rock salt in one hand an’ a sour lemon in de
yuther, an’ he’s talkin’ about all de sins of de Uplifters. He wants me
to he’p him win out.”
“You!” Skeeter Butts shrieked.
“You!” Figger howled.
“Suttinly,” Little Bit answered. “I got plenty influence an’ kin git a
lot of votes. Pap say to me dat plenty offices is to be give away to his
supporters ef he gits elected an’ he done tipped me off dat I’ll be de
fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay.”
“But me an’ Figger is gwine be neuter in dis race,” Skeeter snapped. “De
Hen-Scratch saloon will be de grand high headquarters of all de
politics. Dis saloon mussn’t take no sides.”
“I ain’t no pardner here,” Little Bit replied. “Nobody won’t pay no mind
to me.”
“All right,” Skeeter said after a moment’s thought. “I reckin you don’t
count fer nothin’ nohow. But I don’t stand fer no politickin’ about dis
place. Ef you gits to makin’ any of Pap’s speeches fer him, I’ll shore
suppress you.”
Little Bit shuffled his high-heeled pumps in a few dance steps to show
his contempt for this warning and passed out.
“I hope dis politics disease ain’t ketchin’,” Figger sighed. “Little Bit
is done got de germ.”
“’Tain’t ketchin’,” Skeeter assured him. “But I shore hopes Pap is gwine
win out or some yuther good man. Mustard Prophet oughter be squelched.”
“I ain’t huntin’ no job like dat,” Figger replied as he closed his knife
and looked with admiration upon his handiwork. “I’s gwine home to my
dinner. Scootie is cooked some hot cakes an’ I’m got a gallon of sirup.”