at the time that hopey was in conversation with dazzle zenor, mustard was in deep thought. at last a name came into his darkened and troubled mind which was like a blaze of light illuminating all his perplexities: “skeeter butts!”
ten minutes later he entered the hen-scratch saloon and was told that the man he sought was in a little room in the rear.
“i’m shore glad to find you so easy, skeeter,” mustard said in a relieved tone. “ef you had been out of town i would hab fotch’ my troubles to you jes’ the same, whar you wus.”
“dis is whar you gits exputt advices on ev’ything,” skeeter laughed as he sat down and lighted a cigarette.
why is it that people make confidants of barkeeps?
and whom will we tell our troubles to when the world is made safe for prohibition?
skeeter was a saddle-colored, dapper, petite negro, the dressiest man of any color who ever lived in tickfall. his hair was always closely clipped, the part made in the middle of his head with a razor. his collars were so high that they made him look like a jackass, with his chin hanging over a whitewashed fence. his clothes were so loud that they invariably proclaimed the man a block away.
he was the “pet nigger” of all the well-to-do white people in the town, who invariably took him upon their hunting and fishing trips; his dancing, singing, gift of mimicry, and certain histrionic gifts had given him a place in many amateur theatrical exhibitions in tickfall, among both whites and blacks; and with all his monkey trickery he, nevertheless, had the confidence of all the white people, and could walk in and out of more houses without a question being asked as to the reason for his presence there than any white or black in the little village.
among the negroes he was sir oracle. he was matrimonial adjuster in courtship, marriage, and divorce; he was confidential adviser at baptisms and funerals; his expert advice was sought in all matters pertaining to lodge and church and social functions. in short, he represented in tickfall colored society what colonel gaitskill did among the white people.
“dis is whar you gits exputt advices on eve’ything,” skeeter laughed, for he knew his standing among his people.
“i don’t want advices. i wants a hold-up man,” mustard said gloomily.
“how come?”
“a feller stole somepin from me, an’ i wants somebody to steal it back,” mustard explained.
“bawl out wid it,” skeeter snapped. “don’t go beatin’ de bush aroun’ de debbil. talk sense!”
mustard hesitated for a long time, opened his mouth once or twice as if about to speak, shook his head, and seemed to think better of it.
“well,” skeeter snapped, “why don’t you tell it?”
“i don’t know how to begin,” mustard sighed.
“begin at de fust part an’ tell dat fust,” skeeter ranted. “is you been hittin’ marse tom’s bottle?”
under this sort of prodding, continued for some time longer, skeeter finally got mustard started, and got the story. it is not necessary to repeat it, although mustard’s way of telling what happened and what he thought of popsy would be interesting.
“an’ now, skeeter,” mustard concluded, “de idear is dis: popsy stole my rabbit-foot, an’ i want you to steal it back. rob de ole man of my foot an’ fotch it back to me, an’ i’ll gib you one hundred dollars.”
“pay in eggsvance?” skeeter asked eagerly.
“no,” mustard said.
“bestow a little money in eggsvance to keep my mind int’rusted.”
“suttinly. ten dollars cash down—you got to pay it back ef you don’t do no good.”
“i’ll git de foot all right,” skeeter said confidently.
“don’t be too shore, skeeter,” mustard warned him. “you might git in jail, an’ ef you does, don’t ax me to he’p you.”
“you means to say ef i bust into ole popsy’s cabin an’ steal de foot, an’ he gits me arrested, you won’t esplain nothin’ to de cote-house?”
“nary a single esplain!” mustard proclaimed solemnly. “dat’s jes’ whut i means. i ain’t gwine git mixed up in dis no way an’ no how! ef you gits in jail, i won’t open my mouth ef dey hangs you on a tree.”
skeeter pulled out of his pocket the ten-dollar bill which mustard had just given him and spread it out upon his knee, smoothing it with his yellow fingers.
“gimme fo’ more ten-dollar bills to spread out on top of dis tenner,” skeeter commanded.
mustard promptly handed over the money.
“dis here detecative stealin’ job is a risky bizzness,” skeeter proclaimed. “i ain’t never got at nothin’ yit as dangersome.”
“i knows it, skeeter,” mustard agreed gloomily. “ef you ain’t keerful, you’ll git a bullet in you; an’ ef dat sad misforchine happens to you i won’t even come to yo’ fun’ral. i ain’t gwine mix wid dis at all.”
mustard arose, walked through the barroom, climbed upon his horse, and departed for the nigger-heel plantation.
skeeter sat for a long time, considering all that mustard had told him, the money still spread out upon his knee. then he arose and pocketed the money, walked out to the rear, and sat down in a chair under his favorite china-berry tree.
two boys up the street diverted his attention for a moment. they had a long, black bullwhip, and were taking turn-about trying to see who could “pop” it the loudest. the “cracker” on the whip was nearly worn off, and they decided to plait an entirely new cracker, one that would pop like a pistol. neither had a pocket-knife, and they could find nothing with which to remove the old cracker. they tried to saw it off with a piece of sharp glass, abandoned that in favor of a piece of sharp-edged tin can, then took a sharp rock and tried to beat it off.
when they saw skeeter butts they swooped down on him.
“lend us de loant of yo’ pocket-knife, skeeter,” little bit asked.
skeeter thrust his hand into his pocket, found nothing, and answered:
“i left it inside de barroom. i’m glad of it, because you’s be shore to cut yourselfs.”
skeeter leaned his chair against the tree, sat down, and placed the heels of his shoes in the front rungs of the chair, tipped his hat down over his eyes until the bridge of his nose was invisible, and sat motionless. except the tiny column of smoke that curled up from his cigarette, there was scarcely a sign of life.
the two boys wandered around to the front of the saloon. then a bright idea came to little bit:
“marse org, less git a match an’ burn de cracker offen dis ole whup.”
“where’s the match?”
little bit led him into the saloon and conducted him to the little room in the rear. there, upon a table, they found a box of matches, and org struck one and applied it to the cracker, while little bit held the whip.
the cracker easily caught fire and burned freely. when it was near to the rawhide end of the lash little bit gave the whip a quick jerk and the flaming cracker flew off the end. the boys laughed at the success of their plan, picked up a handful of twine strings which lay around the floor, and walked out.
boylike, they never looked to see where the flaming cracker went. they didn’t care where it went. they didn’t want it. they went out the way they had come, and ran up the street and far away.
skeeter was undisturbed until dazzle zenor passed and roused him.
“i got a big job befo’ me,” she said.
“me, too,” skeeter replied.
“my job am a secret,” dazzle offered.
“mine, too,” skeeter responded.
“i’s fixin’ to make a good bunch of money,” dazzle boasted.
“i’ll either make money or git in jail,” skeeter said. “i’m got a detecative job.”
“my job is harder,” dazzle smiled. “i pick pockets.”
“i bet you is flirtin’ wid a jail, too,” skeeter asserted.
“mebbe so. i cain’t tell you no more——”
suddenly she stopped and stared at the closed door in the rear of the saloon through which tiny spirals of smoke were issuing by way of the cracks.
“is you fumigatin’, skeeter?” she asked.
“fumigatin’ whut?” skeeter asked, then ran to the door and threw it open.
the room was filled with smoke and a pile of old trash and newspapers in one corner was ablaze.
with a loud whoop, skeeter and dazzle ran through the smoke to the fire; from the door which entered into the barroom, figger bush came in with a bucket of water, yelling like a wild man. it was all over in a minute.
“good-by, skeeter!” dazzle laughed. “mebbe us’ll meet in jail.”
“dat fire is a bad sign for me, dazzle,” skeeter sighed. “troubles is gittin’ ready to happen to me.”
“things will shore happen whar a white boy an’ a pickaninny monkeys aroun’,” dazzle told him.
