Skeeter slapped his derby hat on his head with such force that it popped
like a tambourine in a minstrel show, and stalked angrily out of the
room.
He moped down the street and sauntered slowly into the Shin Bone
restaurant, sighing pitifully and feeling very sorry for himself.
A slovenly waitress suppressed a yawn, shuffled across the floor in
slipshod shoes, and asked indifferently: “Whut’s yours?”
Skeeter waited a moment, hoping that his appearance of personified
calamity would impress the woman and she would sympathize with his
heart-break, but she looked like she was going to sleep while standing
in the middle of the floor so he barked his order:
“I’s had so many troubles my appetite is plum’ gone, Pearly. Gimme a
plate of gumbo soup, a dozen fried oystyers, a bait of fried catfish,
two slices of apple pie an’ a glass of milk, a hunk of watermelon an’ a
cup of coffee.”
He smoked cigarettes and thought up mean things to say to Figger Bush
until the order was filled, then courted suffocation for twenty minutes
by eating so rapidly that he did not take the time to breathe.
He had reached out for the pie and milk when Shin Bone, the proprietor
of the eating-house, came from behind a screen and seated himself at the
same table.
“’Lo, Shinny,” Skeeter mumbled as he tried to stuff a whole slice of pie
in his mouth at one time, and therefore became incapable of coherent
speech for the next few minutes.
“Hello,” Shin replied, watching Skeeter with interest until the last of
the first slice of pie was washed down by the milk. “How’s bizzness?”
“’Tain’t so awful bad,” Skeeter replied. “You an’ me is got good trades.
Folks comes to yo’ place because dey gits hungry reg’lar, an’ dey comes
to me because dey gits thirsty reg’lar. All we got to do is to wait till
dey comes.”
“I ain’t find dat true now, Skeeter,” Shin said gloomily. “Wid me,
bizzness is plum’ rotten.”
“How come?” Skeeter asked unconcernedly.
“Pol’tics.”
Skeeter’s interest revived. His second slice of pie lingered half a foot
from his mouth, poised upon his hand.
“Dis here Uplift League election has done loss me all de customers I’m
got,” Shin mourned. “Dey done boycotted me, an’ tunked my bizzness in de
head wid a ax.”
“Dey hadn’t oughter done it,” Skeeter exclaimed, working himself into a
panic. “How did it come to pass?”
“My wife, Whiffle, is de niece of Pap Curtain,” Shin explained. “Pap is
runnin’ fer de presidunt of de Liftuppers ag’in Mustard Prophet. All
niggers dat favors Mustard is done cut me out.”
“But Pap oughter git you some customers,” Skeeter protested.
“Pap ain’t got de right follerin’,” Shin sighed. “Niggers dat votes wid
Pap is de no-shirt, no-sock outfit, an’ dat kind ain’t got no money to
buy vittles. Dey begs deir grub from de cook-ladies in de white folks’
kitchen. Mustard Prophet is got de high-brow, uppity niggers wid him an’
dey’s got de money an’ eats here wid me.”
Skeeter nodded in speechless comprehension of the tragedy, the hand
which held the pie wavered and sank slowly to the table, for that pie
didn’t look good to Skeeter any more.
“Dem Mustard Prophet voters say dey ain’t never comin’ in here no more,”
Shin said dolefully.
“Ef dey don’t feel no better dan I does now, dey wouldn’t fotch you much
trade, fer dey couldn’t eat no more dan a brass monkey,” Skeeter sighed,
pulling his slice of watermelon closer to him, although unconscious of
his action. Beads of apprehensive perspiration stood out on his forehead
and a sudden weakness assailed him.
“Whut ails you, Skeeter?” Shin inquired solicitously, for Skeeter had
suddenly collapsed like a punctured tire. “Don’t you feel good?”
“Somepin I done et is disagreed wid me,” Skeeter moaned. “Lemme git dis
coffee down me befo’ I die!”
Shin waited until Skeeter consumed his coffee and rallied.
“Of co’se, Whiffle cain’t he’p bein’ my wife, an’ she cain’t he’p bein’
kin to Pap, an’ we bofe cain’t he’p it ef Pap runs fer presidunt, but we
shore is got our nose broke.”
“Don’t tell me no more, Shinny,” Skeeter exclaimed, waving both hands
and rising to his feet. “My head is crazy now.”
“Is you got troubles, too?” Shin asked sympathetically.
“Troubles?” Skeeter howled. “Ain’t you heerd about Figger Bush? He’s
runnin’ fer vice-presidunt wid Pap Curtain.”
“You an’ me bofe blowed up suckers, Skeeter,” Shin said in tragic tones.
“Our bizzness is bum an’ busted.”
“It’s powerful bad, Shinny,” Skeeter agreed.
“Badder dan you think, Skeeter,” Shin said. “Pap an’ Figger is shore to
be elected.”
“How does you dope dat out?” Skeeter asked, panting for breath.
“It lines up dis way,” Shin informed him. “Ginny Babe Chew is runnin’
her petticoat pol’tics fer presidunt. All of Pap’s follerers is sinners
in de sight of de Lawd, an’ Ginny Babe Chew is done pronounced on deir
sins copious an’ frequent, so Pap an’ his crowd hates her. In dat case,
Mustard Prophet ain’t gwine git as many votes as he oughter had because
Ginny Babe is runnin’ an’ she’ll git her voters from Mustard’s crowd. Of
co’se, when de high-brows splits up deir vote, Pap an’ Figger will snow
’em over an’ got in solid.”
Skeeter felt a sudden weakness in his knees and sat down forcibly on the
top of the table. Whereupon he felt considerable moisture in the
vicinity of his coat-tail and sprang up to find that he had seated
himself upon his slice of watermelon.
“By jacks!” he exclaimed dramatically. “Figger is done ruint my bizzness
an’ I done ruint my pants!”
“Ef I wus you, I’d git rid of ’em bofe,” Shin suggested, as Skeeter
walked out of the restaurant, wiping the moisture from his trousers with
his handkerchief.
When Skeeter had gone, Shin found that the slice of watermelon had not
been completely crushed and was not entirely unedible, so he drew
himself up to the table and thankfully ate the uninjured part.
“Ef Skeeter wusn’t such a lightweight, dis whole chunk would hab been
sp’iled,” he grinned.
He felt better after eating the melon until he suddenly recalled that
Skeeter had left the eating-house without paying for his meal.
When Skeeter was outside of the restaurant, he promptly forgot his
trousers and started for his home in a trot. He went up the long hill
toward the Flournoy place like a brown shadow passing through the
darkness, threw open the door of a little shed and seized the crank of
his “flivver.”
A moment later he was out in the public highway, speeding through the
night toward the Nigger-Heel plantation, on which Mustard Prophet was
the overseer.
He found Mustard sitting on the porch of his house, shirtless and
barefooted, smoking a vile corncob pipe.
“Set down, Skeeter,” he said in greeting. “Take off all yo’ clothes an’
git cool. Dar ain’t no lady folks aroun’.”
“I feel real chilly, Mustard,” Skeeter said in reply. “Dat is, I’s got
cold foots.”
“Whut ails you?”
“I been hearin’ dat a move is started to kick you out as presidunt of de
Liftup League.”
“Dat’s so,” Mustard said indifferently. “Dey cusses me fer whut I does
an’ dey cusses me fer whut I ain’t do, an’ now dey is tryin’ to boost me
out an’ drap me down.”
“I don’t favor it, Mustard,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I come out to
offer my he’p. You oughter hab me to scuffle fer you durin’ de day while
you got to wuck on dis plantation.”
“Dat’s a good notion, Skeeter,” Mustard said thankfully. “I app’ints you
he’per right now.”
“Hol’ on, Mustard,” Skeeter said. “It don’t go so fast an’ easy as dat.
In de fust place, I wants de Hen-Scratch saloon to be de headquarters of
yo’ side in de race.”
“I’ll arrange dat,” Mustard said easily.
“In de nex’ place, I wants to run wid you on yo’ side fer
vice-presidunt,” Skeeter continued.
“I’ll fix dat easy,” Mustard said. “Dar ain’t nobody wid good sense dat
wants to be vice-presidunt of nothin’. Dat’s like bein’ de curl in a
pig’s tail—jes’ ornamental behind.”
“’Tain’t no diffunce, I wants dat job,” Skeeter insisted.
“I announces you to-morrer,” Mustard said.
“Dat’s all, Mustard,” Skeeter concluded, as he slapped his hat on his
head. “I got to hustle back now an’ start my voters to wuckin’.”
“Dar now!” Skeeter said to himself exultantly, as his little machine
rattled off the miles back to Tickfall. “I done got dat fixed right.
Figger is vice-presidunt on one side an’ I is vice-presidunt on de
yuther side, an’ bofe sides is promised to make de Hen-Scratch deir
headquarters.”
Seven miles of sandy road slipped under his flying wheels like a brown
ribbon while he contemplated this master stroke of business. He placed
his little machine under the shed and climbed into bed before he spoke
to himself again:
“Dat’s whut I calls a good sense compromise.”