In Pap Curtain’s career he had driven many carriages which transported
over the Parish of Tickfall the candidates for the offices within the
gift of the people. He now recalled to his profit that every prospective
Congressman, Governor, and Senator went from house to house, seeking out
each voter, loudly enunciating their political principles, and
soliciting their votes.
Figger Bush, on his way home to his dinner of hot cakes and sirup, found
a little group of negroes standing on a corner in Dirty-Six, with Pap
Curtain in the midst. Pap gesticulated with his left hand, which held a
lemon, and his harsh, snarling voice clearly enunciated the principles
on which he hoped to be elected president of the Tickfall Uplift League.
Figger slipped quietly around the little group, determined to go on his
way. But Pap would let no possible voter escape.
“Ain’t dat so, Brudder Figger Bush?” Pap howled.
“Whut?” Figger asked, brought to a sudden halt.
“Ain’t whut I been sayin’ true fer a fack?” Pap demanded.
“I ain’t heerd nothin’,” Figger mumbled, longing to escape.
Pap walked over and laid an impressive and detaining hand upon Figger’s
shoulder. The crowd moved with Pap and enclosed him, and Figger found
himself shut in on all sides.
“I been explavacatin’ dat de Uplift League ain’t been run right. Ain’t
dat so?” Pap snarled.
“’Tain’t been run to suit me,” Figger murmured knowing that he could
escape more easily if he agreed with Pap than would be possible if he
started an argument.
“Suttin, it ain’t!” Pap howled triumphantly. “’Tain’t been run to suit
nobody. De dues is too high, de members of de league is too choosy about
admittin’ new members, an’ a poor an’ meek-seemin’ man ain’t got no
show. Ain’t dat right?”
“Shore is,” Figger muttered, with some reluctance.
“You know how ’tis yo’ own self, Figger!” Pap howled, elated over
Figger’s endorsement of his position. “I remember once you wusn’t
allowed to come inside de league meetin’ because you had on shoes ’thout
no socks!”
“Dat’s so,” Figger agreed.
“I argufies dat wus a insult an’ a outrage!” Pap snarled. “Don’t you
agree wid dem sentiments?”
“Yes, suh.”
“I proclamates dat de members of de league oughter be allowed to dress
as dey dern please,” Pap howled. “Let ’em come wid socks or widout
socks—dem’s my docterines!”
A murmur of acquiescence arose from the little group, and Pap with true
oratorical instinct felt that he had shot off the one big set-piece of
fireworks in his display, and that he had better quit at his climax. Let
it be said to his credit that he did not linger to shoot off a single
lonesome skyrocket of eloquence, but closed his mouth right there, and
laid hold upon Figger’s arm and led him down the street and away from
the rest of the group.
“I wants you to go to my cabin wid me, Figger,” he whispered. “Us
oughter git togedder an’ whup out dem ins an’ git in ourselves.”
“Scootie is expectin’ me home ’bout now,” Figger remonstrated.
“I won’t keep you long,” Pap assured him.
“Whut you think is my chance to git elected?”
“I reckin you got some show ef you kin git enough niggers to vote fer
you,” Figger told him.
“It’s principles dat gits votes,” Pap proclaimed. “I’s preachin’ de only
docterine whut hits a nigger right—eve’y feller do as he please!”
“Preachin’ don’t git no votes,” Figger disagreed. “Mostest votes is got
by de man whut gits de mostest niggers to vote fer him and wuck fer
him.”
“Dat’s why I needs you, Figger,” Pap said, as they walked up the steps
and sat down on a bench on Curtain’s porch. “I wants you to come in wid
me an he’p me git elected.”
“Dar ain’t nothin’ in de race fer me,” Figger declined promptly. “I
don’t care who is de head leader of de league. I ain’t in de Uplift
bizzness. I’s in de barroom bizzness.”
“Dar’s plenty in it fer you,” Pap told him. “A presidunt is got to hab a
vice-presidunt, ain’t he? I wants you to run wid me an’ be my
vice-presidunt. In case I dies or gits in jail, you gits de presidunt
job.”
Figger Bush drew in his breath sharply, then sat for a long time in
silence, looking into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree.
Honors had been suddenly thrust upon him. Pap was old and his chance of
dying was good. He was a “slick-head” negro, and his chance of getting
into jail was better. It did not require much imagination for Figger
Bush to see all obstacles cleared away, and behold himself as the
honored president of the Uplift League.
Scootie’s hot cakes got cold; Figger never did come home to eat them.
Skeeter Butts tended bar alone until sundown before he saw his partner
again. When Figger entered, Skeeter howled:
“Looky here, you done been gone long enough to go to a fun’ral an’ mourn
de loss of yo’ best frien’. Did dem hot cakes knock you out?”
“Ain’t had none,” Figger answered, glancing up in surprise at the sudden
recollection of his lost dinner. “Fergot all about ’em.”
“Whut ails you? Whar you been at? De fust notion you know, you’ll git
fired!”
“Ef I gits elected, I don’t keer ef——”
“Ef you git—whut?” Skeeter interrupted, his eyes bulging with
astonishment, which rapidly changed to anger and disgust.
“Pap Curtain is candidated me to run fer vice-presidunt wid him,” Figger
explained. “Ef Pap dies or gits in jail, I gits to be plum’ presidunt.
De chances is pretty good. Pap digs wells fer a livin’ an’ he’s got
plenty good chances to git blowed wid dynamite.”
“Positively not!” Skeeter howled. “Dynamite might blow up whar Pap wus,
but ’tain’t never been quick enough to blow up whar Pap is.”
“Anyhow, Pap’s a snoopy, slick-head nigger, an’ he’s got a good chance
to git in jail,” Figger continued.
“Listen to yo’ fool talk!” Skeeter ranted. “Slick-heads don’t never git
in jail. Dey chooses ’em a pardner or a vice-presidunt, an’ it’s dat
mud-head dat gits in jail.”
“Anyways, I’ll shore be presidunt some of de time, because when de gram
jury meets, Pap always gits de trabbel-itch an’ leaves town,” Figger
rambled on.
Overcome by an assortment of emotions, Skeeter Butts placed his feet on
the table and let himself down in his chair until he was sitting on his
shoulder-blades. He fanned himself with his derby hat and glared at
Figger fairly speechless with wrath.
“Of co’se, I mought not git elected, but me ’n’ Pap will gib ’em a good
race——”
“You bet you ain’t gwine be elected,” Skeeter shrieked. “You ain’t gwine
be allowed to run! You’s de wuss loontick I ever did see.”
“I ain’t no loontick,” Figger retorted. “De last words you said to me
befo’ I lef’ fer dinner—an’ I shore regrets dat I loss dat dinner by
deprivity—you said you hoped Pap would git elected. Now I ups an’ offers
to he’p Pap an’ you go poppin’ off——”
“Stop talkin’ to me about Pap Curtain,” Skeeter shouted. “Dat ole
brayin’ jackace is jes’ makin’ a noise to git hisself heard. He won’t
lose nothin’ ef he gits beat, but ef you runs wid Pap, us is gwine to
lose half dis saloon bizzness because de yuther side won’t paternize us
none.”
Figger gasped for breath.
“I fergot that arrangement entirely, Skeeter,” he exclaimed. “Us wus
gwine keep out of it. But dat won’t be so awful bad. Pap an’ me an’ our
crowd will suppote de Hen-Scratch.”
“I’s sorry you done mint us, Figger,” Skeeter said sadly as he arose to
go out for his evening meal. “But I freely admits dat you wus a fool an’
didn’t know no better.”