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.”
