“now, figger,” skeeter butts announced the next morning, “i got such a idjut fer a partner in dis here saloon dat i had to go git myse’f candidated fer pol’tics.”
“is you runnin’ fer presidunt?” figger asked. “i thought you said you squealed too much when you talked.”
“i’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt,” skeeter said solemnly. “i’s runnin’ wid mustard prophet an’ us is shore gwine gib you an’ pap curtain a happy time gittin’ elected.”
“dat looks bad to me, skeeter—pardners in bizzness runnin’ ag’in’ each yuther.”
“dat’s de best bizzness trick i’s done yit,” skeeter said confidently. “bofe sides uses dis house fer headquarters. i sells drinks to de mustard prophets an’ you sells drinks to de pap curtains, an’ we ketch ’em comin’ an’ gwine.”
“i sees,” figger exclaimed in a voice which throbbed with admiration. “dat’s de best nigger idear in tickfall. we’ll git rich an’ one of us will git elected.”
“look out fer ginny babe chew!” the voice of little bit proclaimed from the other end of the room, where the little darky wrestled with a broom. “she’s de one whut’ll ketch you-alls comin’ an’ gwine!”
“us don’t care nothin’ fer dat ole squawkin’ fat hen,” skeeter replied contemptuously.
“you better not git too close,” little bit warned. “dat ole hen’ll peck you!”
“shut up! you git dis saloon cleant up. us is expect plenty comp’ny to-day.”
“it wus a narrer squeak fer us, figger,” skeeter said earnestly. “when you didn’t stay neuter dis bizzness wus ’bout to go bust ontil i made dem new arrangements.”
during the day pap curtain came in and held sundry whispered conferences with figger bush. mustard prophet drove to town and was closeted for two hours with skeeter butts. both men were arranging for a conference at the hen-scratch saloon that night with their henchmen, and both barkeepers were feeling elated at the prospect of a prosperous evening.
then vinegar atts entered and spoiled it all. he left his little red runabout snorting and spitting outside the door while he entered with haste carrying some of the paraphernalia of a fisherman.
“gimme a little snake-bite med’cine, skeeter,” he yelled. “i’s in a hurry. i’s gwine fishin’ an’ i’s heard tell dat snakes in plenty in de swamp.”
“is fish bitin’?” figger inquired.
“dunno,” vinegar replied. “i done selected dis occupation to keep from stayin’ in town. dat uplift election is done deprived me of my goat. i’s skeart to stay here an’ git on either side. it’ll bust up my shoofly chu’ch.”
“ef us wus twins an’ could git on bofe sides, dat wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”
“whar you been at dat you don’t know nothin’?” demanded vinegar in disgusted tones. “some of dem niggers whut represent bofe sides come to my chu’ch to prayer-meetin’ last night, an’ dey got in a fight at de door of de meetin’-house!”
“dey oughter be churched!” skeeter exclaimed.
“dey would hab been churched, only i agonized wid ’em an’ got ’em to bury de hatchet. but i ain’t runnin’ no risks. dey buried de hatchet, but dey left de handle stickin’ out!”
“dat’s bad news, rev’un,” skeeter sighed. “dis here am de official headquarters of bofe sides.”
“bad luck, skeeter!” vinegar bellowed as he started toward the door. “you better hang a piece of black crape on de hen-scratch door and go fishin’ wid me. dem niggers will shore rough-house you when dey git started, an’ you’ll be same as dead.”
vinegar departed, leaving uneasiness and anxiety where confidence had been.
in the evening, the saloon rapidly filled with negroes who came in from the country. they were all hardy men, with muscles of oak and iron—one-shirt, one-gallus fellows of the baser sort, who despised the colored man who lived in town, wore a derby hat, sported a high collar, and was stuck up. these were all sullen and devoted adherents of pap curtain, and after listening for a while to their bitter anarchistic talk, figger bush became frightened of his own supporters and wished there was some easy and unostentatious way to resign.
“dem fellers is rambunctious,” he whispered fearfully to his partner. “dey comes at eve’ything butt-end fust an’ hits it wid a jolt. i wish i hadn’t never et outen de same spoon wid ’em.”
“don’t stir ’em up too much, figger,” skeeter urged him. “mebbe when some of my gang comes in dey’ll calm down a little.”
but skeeter found that when a bull is mad the sight of another bull does not calm his spirit; it rouses him to battle.
a number of town negroes drifted in, took a look at the situation, and drifted quietly out. they had counted the number of pap’s adherents and had gone for re?nforcements, for the saloon was soon filled with men who were loud in their praise of mustard prophet, and they outnumbered pap’s followers three to one.
pap’s crowd, dusty, ragged, trampish-looking, drew off at one end of the saloon and composed a little, sour, ugly bunch; over against the more dressy tickfall bunch, they were a sad contrast, and they felt it.
then pap curtain entered the scene, and his followers took heart.
pap was practicing the political trick of looking like he belonged to the great common people, and had come up from the commonest of them all. he was a grave-digger and well-digger by profession, and he looked to-night like he had just finished the job of digging all the graves and wells that would be needed in tickfall parish for many years to come. there was fresh clay on his clothes and hat and shoes; clay streaked his yellow baboon face, and was plastered thick upon his horny hands. he joined his bunch with many noisy greetings and much hand-shakings, and glared over at the town crowd with every manifestation of contempt that he could devise.
mustard prophet came in and joined the town crowd. he was a good-natured, easy-smiling, hard-working negro who had the confidence and esteem of all the people in the town, white and black. yet he was a real country negro, who had never lived in tickfall in his life, while pap had spent many years in tickfall and owned his cabin there.
smilingly, mustard turned to skeeter, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:
“less git dese here obsequies started, skeeter. what am de plogram?”
“i ain’t fixed up no special diagram,” skeeter muttered. “mebbe we mought start somepin off ef bofe de leadin’ candidates made a speech.”
“let ’em speech!” a number of voices exclaimed.
“brudders, i introduces pap curtain,” skeeter announced. “he’s runnin’ fer presidunt of de uplift. we axes him to say de fust words.”
“i ain’t used to speakin’ ’thout i kin cuss,” pap curtain began, in his snarly voice, gazing at the prophet aggregation with contemptuous eyes and sneering lips. “when i sees a lot of dude niggers tryin’ to ack like gawd made a mistake when he didn’t make ’em white, i don’t cuss, because i ain’t able to do the subjeck jestice. i thanks de good lawd dat i ain’t nothin’ but a corn-fiel’ nigger, brudder of de cotton-fiel’ mule, an’ i makes my livin’ diggin’ wells, ditches, an’ graves. i done dug de graves of all de dead, an’ now i’s gittin’ ready to dig de graves of some dat’s livin’. we corn-fiel’ niggers will bury mustard prophet an’ his tickfall dudes when de day of votin’ comes!”
a sullen note of applause came from pap’s ugly-looking crowd, but there was no enthusiasm, no good-will. in a word, pap’s crowd were not good sportsmen. one man took a big red apple out of his pocket, wiped it off on the leg of his trousers and began to eat it.
“i now introduces mustard prophet,” skeeter announced uneasily.
there was handclapping, several shouts of applause. mustard’s crowd had been trained in the lodges and the various clubs and knew a little better how to act under the circumstances.
“i don’t see no reason fer gittin’ sour an’ ugly, brudders,” mustard began. “nobody ain’t gwine lose much ef he don’t git elected presidunt of de league. in de last year i ain’t got nothin’ fer my presidunt job but a cuss-word eve’y time i do somepin dat don’t please nobody. of co’se i wants to keep on wid dis job an’ hopes you won’t fergit to vote fer me. pap curtain says he’s a corn-fiel’, cotton-fiel’ nigger, but dar ain’t no man, white ner black, dat ever seed him wuckin’ in no kind of fiel’ as a country nigger oughter do. he lives in dis town, an’ he owns his house in dis town. as you-all knows, i’s a real country nigger, never did live in town, an’ i been de overseer of marse tom’s plantation fer twenty year. i tries to stand by de high notions of de uplift. i preaches dat a feller ought to dress up in work clothes when he wucks, an’ put on his compan’y clothes when he goes out in sawciety, an’ wear his sunday clothes at de lodge an’ de fun’ral an’ de meetin’-house——”
at this point the apple-eating adherent of pap curtain had consumed his apple to the core. he balanced it on his thumb as a child prepares to shoot a marble, and flicked it across the room, where it landed on the top of mustard prophet’s bald head.
mustard prophet stepped down from the chair on which he was standing, walked quietly across the room, laid hold of the collar of the offender, kicked his shins, punched his jaw, then turned him around and booted him across the room.
it was no more than the offender deserved, but he offered all the resistance and counter-offensive in his power, and while this was going on someone slipped behind mustard and administered a lusty and soul-satisfying kick to him.
the notion became contagious. the two forces joined in combat, but, strange to say, they did not fight with fists, but with feet.
“look at dat!” little bit exclaimed, as he scrambled to a safe place on the top of the bar, where he danced up and down in his high-heeled pumps. “eve’ybody is tryin’ to kick eve’ybody else!”
in a moment the crowd was so cramped for room that they had to abandon that mode of combat and began to fight with their fists. they milled around and around, pounding, scrouging, punching with elbows, while their voices rose in a mighty diaphony of imprecation and abuse.
“lawd! lawd!” little bit exclaimed in a prayerful voice from his place of safety on the bar. “eve’ybody is tryin’ to hit eve’ybody else!”
in the fury of battle the men sought other weapons and found the numerous chairs most convenient. in the jam they found it impossible to swing the chairs and hit with them, so they held the chairs before them, as a lion-tamer does, and charged their opponents, holding their heads low to avoid being clubbed. the resemblance to a lot of milling, horning cattle struck little bit at once, and from his vantage-point upon the bar he announced the procedure:
“eve’y bully is tryin’ to hook eve’ybody else!”
skeeter butts had seen as much of the fray as he could stand, so he ran behind the bar, seized his automatic pistol and fired it in the air, holding the weapon out of the window. he knew how dangerous such a performance was, for it might suggest to the angry negroes the use of their own guns. but he took the chance with the hope that the town watchman would hear the firing and come to the rescue.
the negroes took no notice of the pistol-firing, for some of them had found new and mightier weapons. there were half a dozen tables in the room, and when some of these were overturned, the men wrenched the legs off, and with shouts of glee brought these mighty clubs into action.
“gawdlemighty!” little bit screamed. “eve’ybody is tryin’ to kill eve’ybody else!”
figger rushed to the electric-switch and turned off the lights.
“bless gawd!” little bit bawled. “eve’ybody cain’t see eve’ybody else!”
suddenly a voice cut through the sound and fury of that room.
“hey, you niggers! turn on the lights!”
silence except for the tramping of many feet going toward doors and windows.
“halt!”
silence, broken by the sound of running feet. the light flashed on and little bit stood by the switch.
“dey’s all went, cap’n,” he snickered. “nobody here excusin’ me!”
the watchman pushed open the swinging door and passed out into the night.
“i guess de meetin’ is over,” little bit giggled. “i’ll shet up an’ go home to bed.”
he carefully examined his garments to see that they had not been hurt in the scramble, smoothing his flowered shirt-waist shirt, and pulling up his purple-silk stockings till they were trim and neat over his legs.
“i’m glad dem scufflers didn’t spile my ladylike clothes,” he said proudly. “ginny babe chew says i’s de sensation of de town!”
