Skeeter sat down at the same table and opened his mouth to deliver his
mind of all its burden of trouble; but the white man put such a
successful cloture on the colored man’s oratory that Skeeter could not
speak a word for a long time.
Nuhat thrust both hands into his pockets and brought them out full of
silver and currency. He did not speak a word of greeting. He merely laid
the money on the top of the table and watched Skeeter’s popping eyes.
“You ought to have been at the races, Skeeter,” Nuhat said at last. “We
mopped up!”
Skeeter needed no proof of this beyond the tabletop covered with money;
but even yet he could not find a word to say.
“There is over six hundred dollars of it that says we win, Skeeter,”
Nuhat laughed.
“Whut hoss win?” Skeeter asked with stiff lips.
“Your horse,” Nuhat replied. “Don’t you remember that you bought a
horse? Your ten-share nigger horse that I sold you. I sneaked him out of
the pasture, took him to Shongaloon to the races, and mopped up this
money.”
“I been huntin’ fer dat hoss eve’ywhar,” Skeeter sighed. “I shore missed
him. I’s had a lot of trouble ’bout dat hoss!”
“You won’t ever see him again,” Nuhat responded.
“How come?”
Nuhat hesitated a minute, looking sharply at Skeeter. He seemed
undecided what to say in reply, but finally ventured:
“I didn’t own that horse in the first place. That horse’s real name is
Springer, and its real owner is Old Griff.”
Skeeter opened his eyes until they were like china door-knobs. He
wondered why he had not recognized the most famous race-horse in
Louisiana, named Springer because of his peculiar springy gait.
“I borrowed Springer from Old Griff’s stable without requesting the loan
of him,” Nuhat continued. “Old Griff came to Shongaloon after him. He
was real nice about it, after I had talked to him about four hours. At
first he wanted to put me in jail for horse-stealing.”
“My Lawd, white man!” Skeeter ranted. “Dat wus a awful risky thing to
do. Glory to gracious! To think dat a nigger like me one time owned
three-tenths of Springer—fo’-tenths—my Lawd, I owned all of him, fer dem
niggers made me give deir money back!”
“That’s some glory for you, Skeeter!” Nuhat assured him.
“How come dat Old Griff didn’t put you in de jail-house?” the colored
man asked.
“I had four quarts of prime Kentucky whisky when I started in this
adventure. I took it with me to placate Old Griff when he caught me with
the goods. It worked. Toward the end of the second quart he offered to
make me a present of the horse.”
“You means to say all dis money is yourn?” Skeeter asked, waving his
hand over the table.
“It’s ours,” Nuhat replied. “I came back to whack up even with you.”
“Bless Gawd fer a noble white man!” Skeeter exclaimed. “How come you
tuck a notion to come back here to me?”
“I might have kept on traveling,” the white man said meditatively,
choosing his words cautiously; “but I wanted to have friends in Tickfall
in case Old Griff sobered up and began to trail his horse and ask
questions along the way. Besides, down at the bottom of me, I’m honest,
or want to be.”
He counted out ninety dollars and handed it to Skeeter.
“This don’t go into the divide,” he explained. “This is the sum you
originally invested in our business enterprise. The rest is ours—not
honestly acquired, perhaps; but I was up against it, and had to have
some coin.”
They had five hundred and forty dollars to divide between them. When
Skeeter sat fondling two hundred and seventy dollars, Nuhat asked with a
smile:
“What you going to do with your money?”
Skeeter took a big breath and sighed in happy anticipation.
“I leaves on de midnight train fer N’Awleens, an’ I stays dar till I
gits dis money well spent. I’ll see de nigger shows, ride on all de
street-cars, eat hot roasted peanuts, travel up ’n’ down on de
yellervators, chaw beefsteak two inches thick, an’ buy me a derby hat
an’ a suit of clothes wid so many colors dat when I walks up Canal
Street de white folks will think de lightning done struck de rainbow!”
“I’m going to buy a steamboat,” Nuhat said musingly. “Thirty feet long,
eighteen feet wide, floating on top of the water like a cigar-box,
propelled by a paddle-wheel about as big as a barrel, with a little
donkey six-snort-power engine. It has a speed of six miles an hour
down-stream, if the current is good. Going up-stream, it gets there when
it can.”
“Huh!” Skeeter grunted.
“It costs two hundred dollars,” Nuhat continued. “I expect to live and
die on that boat. I love to sit and think!”
“Ain’t you gwine do nothing but think?” Skeeter asked, to whom such an
occupation was utterly foreign and beyond his comprehension.
“Yes—I’m going to turn honest. Everybody will know me as a good white
man.”
“White folks is diffunt from niggers in deir notions of havin’ fun,”
Skeeter said meditatively. “Turnin’ honest an’ thinkin’ don’t look like
a awful good time to me!”
“I understand,” Nuhat replied. “A negro has a one-cylinder mind and a
smoky spark-plug.”
“But dat good time I plans don’t sep’rate me from mo’ dan fifty dollars
of my money,” Skeeter proclaimed. “De rest goes todes startin’ me in de
movie bizness. De nex’ time you steals a hoss an’ rides through
Tickfall, you’ll see Skeeter in charge of a fust-rate nigger
movin’-picture show.”
When the midnight train arrived, Skeeter was on the platform, bidding
good-by to Tickfall with a happy face.
The news of his sudden rise to prosperity had spread with amazing
rapidity through the colored portions of the town. No one knew the
details, but all heard that the horse Skeeter bought had won a fortune
at the races. Nine men were sorely distressed that they had treated
Skeeter so shabbily and had disposed of their shares of the horse.
Just as the train started, nine negroes came running across the station
platform. Pap Curtain was waving two boxes of cigars, Figger Bush was
wildly gesticulating with the horn of his “grassyphome,” and the others
were holding out their hands with money.
Conko Mukes ran along the station platform, clinging to the steps of the
moving train, waving a ten-dollar bill, and speaking in pleading tones.
“I wants to buy my share of dat hoss agin, Skeeter!”
The train was gaining headway, and Skeeter leaned over, pretending he
could not hear what was said.
“I wants to buy my share of de hoss back!” Conko bellowed, for he had to
run now to keep up with the moving train.
Skeeter grasped the hand-rail on each side of him and kicked out with
all the strength of his body.
The toe of his boot struck Conko Mukes on the point of the chin. The man
staggered, stumbled, and fell as a rotten log falls in the forest. Eight
of his friends stubbed their toes on him, stepped on him, fell on him,
then picked him up, brushed off his clothes, and led him away.
The train moved through the darkness like a long serpent with shining,
jeweled sides. Skeeter entered the car and sat down, smiling.
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