I
There were two men in Tickfall to whom everybody came with their
troubles—Vinegar Atts, pastor of the Shoofly church, and Skeeter Butts,
proprietor of the Hen-Scratch saloon. Both were reputed among their
fellows to be wise in all human experience and equal to every emergency
of life upon the earth.
Generally a man in trouble went first to Vinegar Atts, after which he
poured his tale into the ear of Skeeter Butts. Each of these modern
solons gave the troubled one some expert advice; then the preacher and
the barkeeper got together and held a consultation, in which, as in a
consultation of physicians, the diagnosis of each was confirmed, but the
treatment was changed.
This time it was Shin Bone in trouble. Shin was the proprietor of a
hot-cat eating-house, which made him and his wife very popular in the
community, for there seems to be a natural affinity between a colored
person and a piece of fried catfish.
“Whut ails yo’ mind, Shin?” Vinegar asked as Shin sat down on the cabin
porch, dropping his old wool hat at his feet.
“I’s in deep troubles,” Shin said sorrowfully.
“A nigger’s trouble is like de rainbow—’tain’t got no end,” Vinegar
philosophized. “But I don’t turn no nigger friend down because his
troubles won’t terminate. I’s willin’ to he’p you fer any amount up to
one dollar.”
“’Tain’t money troubles,” Shin said. “My bizzness is doin’ fine, but I
ain’t gittin’ along so powerful good in my fambly.”
“You ain’t got no fambly, excusin’ Whiffle an’ yo’ baby,” Vinegar
observed.
“De baby is all right,” Shin explained; “but Whiffle ain’t doin’ so
well.”
Vinegar sat for a while in an expectant attitude, waiting for Shin to go
on with the narration; but Shin found it hard to tell what he had come
to say. He made several abortive efforts to get his mouth to going which
got no further than a wretched silence and made him look like an idiot.
“Well?” Vinegar bellowed. “Why don’t you say somepin? You ack like one
of dese here deef an’ dumb mutes celebratin’ de Fo’th of July wis
noiseless powder.”
“My ailment is dis,” Shin said desperately, speaking the words in a
rush, as if in a hurry to get the confession over. “My wife, Whiffle, is
payin’ entirely too much attention to yuther nigger men.”
Vinegar drew a corncob pipe from his pocket and took a long time to
light it, while his attention seemed to be concentrated upon a row of
dead trees whose snaggy branches were visible on the Little Mocassin
Ridge, four miles away.
Shin fidgeted and twiddled his thumbs. Finally he reached down at his
feet for his wool hat, and began to gnaw at its brim, as if he were
starving to death. He had chewed nearly around the circuit of the brim
before Vinegar took his eyes off the old dead trees; and even then
Vinegar merely looked at him and said nothing.
“Yes, suh,” Shin continued, finding it easier to talk now that he had
made a start. “I always believed dat Whiffle wus jes’ as good frien’ to
me as a wife nachelly gits to be, but now I done changed my mind.”
“Who is de man whut runs atter her?” Vinegar asked.
“I don’t know, an’ I cain’t find out,” Shin responded. “Of co’se, no
nigger man ain’t gwine come to see her when I’m hangin’ aroun’. Whoever
is courtin’ Whiffle comes to de back door of de resteraw when I’m out in
town somewhar.”
“Mebbe it’s some of her kinnery dat has sneaked back to town an’ ain’t
hankerin’ to be perceived, especially by de police.”
“It couldn’t be none like dat,” Shin replied. “Whiffle ain’t got but one
kinfolks, an’ dat wus her brudder. Dat brudder is plumb absent fer good
an’ all. You knows whut happened to him, don’t you?”
“Naw, suh,” Vinegar answered, scraping his head with the palm of his
hand to stir his recollection.
“It come to pass at our weddin’,” Shin told him. “Atter we got hitched,
a passel of niggers moseyed over to our house to wish us a fussless
married life an’ git a sasser of ice-cream an’ cake. Us soon gobbled up
our vittles, an’ I gib her brudder, Pewter Boone, a ten-dollar bill to
go git some more eats. He went.”
“Well?” Vinegar snapped. “Go on wid de story.”
“Dat’s all,” Shin responded. “As I tole you, Pewter went. He tuck my ten
dollars an’ jes’ nachelly abandoned me. He ain’t never come back, an’
I’m got a hunch dat he’s gwine till yit.”
“I don’t remember when dat nigger lived in Tickfall at all,” Vinegar
said.
“He didn’t live here,” Shin said impatiently. “He got his raisin’ in
N’Awleens. Jes’ dropped in day o’ the weddin’ an’ then dropped out
before I even took time to get a good look at him. But dat Pewter nigger
ain’t got nothin’ to do wid dis. Us is done side-tracked an’ got off de
subjeck.”
“Whut does you want me to do?” Vinegar asked.
“Keep yo’ eye out fer me, an’ find out who dat nigger is whut hangs
aroun’ Whiffle.”
“Naw, suh,” Vinegar said promptly. “I don’t monkey wid no love scrapes.
I’m a exput in givin’ religious advices, but I ain’t no
mattermony-fixer. I declines.”
“Who muss I take my troubles to?” Shin asked desperately.
“Tell yo’ sorrers to de barkeep,” Vinegar chuckled. “You knows as well
as I do dat Skeeter Butts is de exput mattermony-fixer of dis town.”
Shin placed his hat on his head and stood up.
“I aimed to ax Skeeter, too, Rev’un, but I decided to come to see you
fust.”
“Dat wus right,” Vinegar applauded. “I loves to git fusters on eve’y
scandal in town.”