Chapter XII: Limit Goes the Limit (2)

He paused and took out his handkerchief, mopping his face. He felt like every pore of his skin was a spouting fountain of perspiration and he was sweating ice water.

“I went up to Marse John’s house an’ tole him dat Shin Bone stole little Ready Rocket outen my saloon, an’ Marse John mighty nigh bust out cryin’! I tole him dat Happy Rocket stole little Shinny Bone right outen his mammy’s arms, an’ Marse John jes’ blubbered right out like a little baby!”

“I don’t see nothin’ so powerful bad!” Shin Bone interrupted.

“My Gawd, Shin!” Skeeter exclaimed with all the dramatic force of his nature. “Marse John says he ain’t had to hang no nigger sence he’s been a sheriff, but de law specifies dat _de penalty fer stealin’ a baby is death_!”

If Skeeter hoped to make a sensation, he did!

Whiffle Bone threw her arms around her husband’s neck and sobbed as if he were already dead.

Happy Rocket dropped upon her knees upon the barroom floor, raised her quivering hands in an attitude of prayer and sobbed:

“O mussiful Gawd! I’s a mean, wuthless nigger an’ I ain’t prepared to die!”

“Looky here, Skeeter!” Shin Bone howled in a desperate, frightened voice. “Didn’t you steal dem babies yo’ own se’f? How come you is got ’em wid you ef you didn’t steal ’em?”

“Naw, suh!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I attached dem chillun in de name of de law an’ de sheriff an’ de Nunited States of Loozanny!”

Then Shin Bone broke down and howled:

“Gimme my baby! Me an’ Whiffle is gwine leave dis town till atter de gram-jury meets!”

“Take him!” Skeeter exclaimed. “I don’t want him--I’d druther hab a yeller-jacket under my shirt. Jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

“Gimme my baby!” Happy screamed. “I’se gwine back home to-night on de fust train!”

“Honey, don’t let nothin’ detain you!” Skeeter admonished her. “I don’t want yo’ baby--I’d druther hab a cockle-bur in my sock. Jes’ take yo’ brat an’ go!”

In a few minutes the barroom was empty, the crowd splitting into two parts, following either Happy Rocket or Shin Bone home, according to their sympathies.

In the middle of the floor Skeeter found a tin coffee pot. It was battered, broken, and useless, and one side was caved in until it resembled a big, toothless mouth grinning at him in sardonic glee. He bent over it, examined it from all sides, but did not touch it. The mishaps of the night had made him cowardly.

“Nigger luck is always bad luck,” he whispered. “Dis here tin pot might be a bomb an’ bust right in my face. I’ll let Little Bit pick it up when be cleans up in de mawnin’. All dis night bad luck has kotch me befo an’ behime--mostly behime.”

Skeeter sat down to rest his mind and collect his impressions. He was not the jaunty, confident, debonair young man he had been a few hours before. He felt like something had gone out of him, fading like breath upon a razor, leaving him but a shell of his former self, never to recover what he had lost and be the same again.

Tears of weakness and nervous collapse came into his eyes and rolled down his cheeks to the corners of his mouth. He wiped them away with the palm of his yellow hand and spoke again:

“One time when I wus little I axed Marse John Flournoy whar I come from. He tole me dat a buzzard laid me an’ de debbil hatched me in de hot ashes. I don’t misdoubt dem words, because I been ketchin’ hell ever since!”

Idle Dreams

“I ain’t no scholard an’ I don’t need no book,” Skeeter Butts proclaimed as he sat under the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Mebbe so,” the glib-talking man beside him said; “but dis here ain’t no highbrow book. It tells all ’bout whut dreams means. Don’t you never dream nothin’?”

“Shore!” Skeeter exclaimed, clawing at a high, white collar which threatened to saw his head off. “Las’ night I dreamt dat I done died an’ went to de bad place.”

“Dar now!” his friend exclaimed, turning the pages of the book until he found the word “Hell.” “You listen to dis.” Then, with the utmost difficulty the darky read: “‘To dream of seein’ hell denotes dat de dreamer’s life is a bad one, an’ is an in-ti-ma-tion to him of re-for-ma-tion.’”

“My gosh!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, his eyes nearly popping out of his head. “Dat shore hit me right in de center of myse’f. How do dat book know?”

“I dunno,” the negro answered. “I s’pose it’s inspired. Anyways, it don’t never miss nothin’. Is you had any mo’ dreams recent?”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter said, with a frightened expression on his saddle-colored face. “Night befo’ las’ I dreamed dat I wus up in a balloom.”

“Us’ll see whut dat means,” his friend exclaimed, fumbling with the book. “Here it am: ‘Balloom--To dream of it shows dat you will engage in many chi-mer-i-cal plans.’”

“Engage in--_which_?” Skeeter demanded in a startled tone.

“Chi-mer-i-cal,” the negro repeated with difficulty. “Dat’s de kind it specify--Gawd knows whut dat means.”

“How many of dem dreams comes true?” Skeeter asked uneasily, gazing at the gaudy red cover of the book.

“All of ’em,” his companion answered promptly. “A garntee goes wid de book. Try it on wid anodder dream.”

Skeeter hesitated a moment, thinking heavily. Then he said:

“’Bout a week ago I dreamed ’bout rats.”

“Huh!” the other darky grunted as he found the place in the book. “Here am de word: ‘Rats--Se-cret en-e-mies.’”

“Looky here, nigger!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed in a frightened voice as he sprang to his feet, “dat shore is a dangersome book. Put all dem dreams togedder an’ look whut sort of a prize-package I done drawed!”

“Dat package shore is got some lemons in it fer you, Skeeter,” his friend assured him. “De fust dream says dat yo’ life am bad an’ you oughter git reformed; de second dream specify dat you is gwine engage in--in--whut-you-call-it plans; de las’ dream orate dat you got plenty enemies!”

“Dat’s de way it goes,” Skeeter mourned.

“Does you want a garntee dat all ’em dreams will come true?”

“Naw!” Skeeter howled. “I wants a garntee dat none of ’em gits to come to pass.”

He snatched a package of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighted one with trembling fingers, burned it to his lips with furious puffs, and spat the stub out upon the ground. Then he exhaled an immense volume of smoke around his head, as if invoking protective incense from the depths of his lungs.

“How much do dat book cost?” Skeeter finally asked.

“One dollar,” was the answer.

“Make it fo’ bits an’ I’ll buy de book,” Skeeter told him.

“I cain’t do it, Skeeter,” the other darky responded. “I needs a dollar. Excusin’ dat, a nigger whut ain’t willin’ to pay one roun’ dollar to learn how much bad luck is gwine git him deserves to hab a few mo’ bad dreams.”

“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter sighed as he laid a silver dollar on his companion’s knee and reached out his hand for the volume.

“I hates to part wid dis book, Skeeter,” his friend said, as he reluctantly handed it over. “It shore is a wonder book. I been readin’ atter it fer mighty nigh a year. One dream I had specify dat somebody wus gwine inherit me money!”

“I might could stan’ dat kind of a dream,” Skeeter said in a solemn tone of voice. “But I’s gwine roost powerful low fer a little while till I kin change dem bad dreams I’m had to good ones.”

“Dat’s de rule,” the other darky chuckled, as he pocketed the dollar and rose to leave. “Ef dat book says, ‘Lay low,’ you done got yo’ ordahs. Ef it tells a rabbit to climb a tree, Br’e’r Rabbit had better hunt a easy one to git up on an’ straddle a limb.”

“Don’t tell nobody dat I done bought dis book, pardner,” Skeeter begged. “I wants to gib it a good try-on fust.”

“I ain’t say nothin’,” the darky grinned as he started away. “Dis dollar will gib me a trip to N’ Awleens on de steamboat, an’ I’s gwine to de landin’ right now.”

* * * * *

When the man had gone Skeeter laid the book aside, and busied himself in cleaning the saloon, wiping off the bar and the tables and sweeping the room. He tried to take his mind off of the book, but the interpretations of his dreams constantly recurred to his mind, and he felt a growing uneasiness.

“I wonder who dem secret enemies is,” he sighed. “Dat book oughter had tole me mo’ ’bout dat.”

He counted off upon his fingers all the negroes whom he did not like; then he counted those whom he knew did not like him; then he exclaimed:

“Dat don’t he’p me none. Ef I knows deir names, of co’se dey ain’t really secret enemies!”

He sat down at a table, lighted another cigarette, let the hot ash fall from the end and set his trousers afire. Then he dropped his smoke, put out the fire, and viewed the damage with popping eyeballs.

“Dat’s a _bad_ sign,” he exclaimed. “A nigger ain’t in luck whut sets his pants on fire!”

He got up and walked toward the rear exit of the saloon, traveling with jerky, nervous steps, and looking behind him twice with a frightened glance. He seated himself again in the shade of the chinaberry tree, and the book lay upon the chair which his friend had vacated.

Skeeter eyed the volume a long time with increasing uneasiness. The gaudy red-cover design represented a red woman, propped up on some red pillows, asleep, and holding a red fan in her hand. In the background was another red woman waving a wand, and a winged white boy, holding a black hat in one hand and a bag of money in the other. Scattered about on the red woman’s red couch were playing cards, envelopes, and one square piece of paper which contained the numbers, “4-11-44.”

“I onderstan’s dem numbers,” Skeeter mumbled to himself. “Whar is 7-11?”

Skeeter lighted another cigarette and puffed it furiously. Twice he reached out his hand to take the book, then drew back without touching it. He looked away several times, but the gaudy cover design attracted him each time with a sort of hypnotic fascination.

“I hadn’t oughter bought dis book,” he sighed. “A nigger ain’t in luck ef he knows too much about his innards.”

Finally he overcame his fear to the point where he ventured to turn the cover, and lo! on the other side was the picture of an aged negro, his black face framed in white hair and beard, his spectacles pushed up on his flat forehead, his mouth spread wide in a snaggle-toothed laugh.

“My Gawd!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet and gazing at the face with a fear which made his lips tremble, and his hands shake, and his knees knock together. “Dar’s a tintype of ol’ Swampo, dat wild Affican nigger whut used to live in a holler sycamo’ tree in de Little Moccasin Swamp!”

He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands. For five minutes he strove to recall all that he knew and had heard of Swampo.

He remembered the leering, leathery, wrinkled face of the old half-wit negro, who came to town on every Saturday afternoon, and smirked and bowed and scraped around the white folks, holding out a clawlike hand, begging for a few pennies. Once he had heard a fearful screaming among the blue jays in the swamp, and had crept through the high undergrowth to see what the trouble was; and lo! Swampo had caught a blue jay, had laid the bird on its back, and had pinioned its wings to the ground with forked sticks.

The bird’s horrible screams had brought all the jays in that part of the swamp to the spot, and they stood around the imprisoned bird, making loud and profane comments upon his unfortunate predicament. At intervals some blue jay, impelled by curiosity, walked up within reach of the captive bird’s claws. Instantly the captive reached out, seized the bird, and held him a prisoner until Swampo slunk out of the underbrush, grinning like an ape, and released it!

As he thought about this fearful scene, Skeeter’s hair stood up on end, just as it had years before when he witnessed it, and had crawled, terrified, away from that vicinity. A cold shiver passed over his sweat-drenched body; he raised his head and eyed Swampo’s wide, laughing mouth with superstitious awe.

“Swampo shore is got de laugh on me,” he muttered through chattering teeth. “I wish dat nigger hadn’t sold me dis book. I ain’t no scholard!”

Lighting one cigarette after another to bolster up his courage, he managed at last to put out a trembling finger and turn the book over so he could read the title-page. With the greatest difficulty he spelled it out, giving the peculiar negro pronunciation to the words as he uttered them:

“‘Af-ric-an Dream Book an’ Fortune Teller, containin’ de true in-ter-pre-ta-tion of dreams, an’ de numbers of de events to which dey ap-ply. Also prog-nos-ti-ca-tions an’ di-vi-na-tions by cards, dice, do-mi-noes, dreams, moles, an’ marks, phy-si-og-no-my, phy-si-ol-o-gy, signs, au-gu-ri-es, charms, an’ in-can-ta-tions----”

“My good gosh!” Skeeter almost screamed as he sprang to his feet. “Dis is a awful book! Half dem words don’t signify nothin’!”

For ten minutes he walked up and down under the trees muttering to himself, his face fear-stricken, his hands trembling, his body oozing with cold sweat.

Then with a mighty resolution he reached out for the book, folded it, and slipped it into his hip pocket.

“Dis book is done skeart me plum’ to death,” he sighed. “Ef I die, I’ll go to hell! I wonder whar Revun Vinegar Atts is at? I’s gwine to talk dis over wid some religium pusson!”

* * * * *

The Rev. Vinegar Atts occupied four chairs under a tree in front of the Shoofly church--his body on one, his feet on another, his arms spread wide across the back of two more.

“Howdy, Skeeter?” he exclaimed. “Fotch you out anodder chair from de chu’ch. I needs all I’m got.”

Skeeter looked him over and grinned. For a moment he forgot his fears in contemplation of this squat-legged, pot-bellied, moon-faced negro preacher, whose head was bald except for two tufts of hair, one over each ear, which made him resemble a mule wearing a blind bridle.

“You shore is spreadin’ yo’se’f out, Elder,” Skeeter said, as he set his chair close beside Vinegar. “You look like a buzzard whut is tryin’ to fly back’ards an’ upside down at de same time.”

“I’s like a watermillyum vine,” Vinegar boomed. “When I gits sot good, I begins to spraddle.”

Skeeter reached to his hip pocket and brought out his dream book.

“Whut you flashin’ dat book aroun’ fer, Skeeter?” Atts asked suspiciously. “De Bible say dat many study is weary on de flesh.”

“I needs some advices from a scholard,” Skeeter remarked as he lighted a cigarette. “I done smoked up a whole pack of dese here things in de las’ half-hour. I’s powerful worrited in my mind.”

“You done come to de right place fer advices, son,” Atts announced with confidence. “Ef you got anything to ax me, jes’ bawl out!”

“Does you b’lieves in dreams, Elder?” Skeeter began.

“Well, suh, dat depen’s,” Rev. Vinegar Atts announced after a moment of cogitation. “As a preacher, of co’se, I b’lieves in Proverdunce; but ef you ’terrogates me jes’ as a common cullud nigger pusson--of co’se dat’s plum’ diffunt.”

“Is you had any dreams recent?” Skeeter inquired.

“Yes, suh; I dreamt about a wash-tub las’ night,” Vinegar informed him.

“Dis book tells whut dat dream signify,” Skeeter explained, as he opened the volume and turned to the proper page. “I reads dis about tubs: ‘Ef it be filled wid water, you hab evil to fear; an empty tub signify trouble; an’ to run against one, sorrow.’”

“Lawdymussy!” Vinegar bawled.

With a convulsive movement of his body, he kicked the chair from under his feet, hurled the chairs from under his arms, and upset himself falling over on his back with his feet in the air like an overturned bug.

He jumped up, breathing like a foundered horse.

“Fear, trouble, an’ sorrer!” he bellowed. “I knowed it! I knowed it wus comin’ on all de time!”

He sat down, folded his hands, and gazed around him, his mouth hanging open like the jaws of a bull alligator.

“Here I is, Luck!” he mourned. “Jes’ come right along, throw me down, an’ set on my head, den gimme a dose of bumpo-calomel an’ lemme die! O Lawdy, dat dose of dreams is shore heavy on dis nigger’s stomick!”

“Dat’s pretty servigerous, Vinegar,” Skeeter said mournfully, “but you oughter hear whut dis book prophesy ’bout me!”

“Go ’way, little yeller nigger!” Vinegar exclaimed with a flapping motion of his hand toward Skeeter. “Don’t tell me nothin’ ’bout yo’se’f! Ain’t I got all I kin stan’ right now? Look at me--I’s skeart already; I’s got plenty trouble right dis minute; an’ as fer sorrer--I’s shore sorry you ever fetch yo’ ole yeller mug up on dis hill whar I sets!”

“Whut you gwine do, Elder?” Skeeter inquired in a voice which quavered with fear.

“I’s gwine hide out till dese here calamities is done passed over,” Vinegar bellowed.

He jerked out a soiled white handkerchief and mopped it around his face, backward across the top of his bald head, and over the back of his bull-like neck.

“Whoosh!” he snorted. “I’ll be skeart to eat my vittles! I’ll be skeart to go to bed at night! I ain’t gwine take no chances wid a dream like dat taggin’ behime me!”

Skeeter fumbled with the volume a moment, then inquired:

“Would you wish to own dis book?”

“Who? Me?” Vinegar howled. “Naw, _suh_! Whut a nigger don’t know cain’t never hurt him; but ef he knows whut’s gwine to happen, he ain’t never real sapisfied till it comes to pass.”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter mourned. “I shore made a miscue when I paid a dollar fer dis book. It’s got a tintype of ole Affican Swampo in it--you rickoleck him, Elder?”

“I shore does,” Vinegar responded. “De white folks found him dead out in de Little Moccasin Swamp wid a live rattlesnake in his hand!”

“Yes, suh, dat’s him,” Skeeter said fearfully. “I had done fergot ’bout dat snake.”

“Atter dey kilt de snake de white folks foun’ dat Swampo wus holdin’ it so tight in his dead han’ dat dey couldn’t git it away from him,” Vinegar said. “Dey buried Swampo an’ de snake togedder!”

“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed, his hair standing up on his head. “Ain’t dat plum’ awful?”

“Whut dey doin’ wid Swampo’s picture in dat book?” Vinegar wanted to know.

“Dis book is named atter Swampo,” Skeeter informed him. “It’s called de Affican Dream Book.”

“Go ’way wid dat book, Skeeter!” Vinegar bawled. “O Lawdy, I wonder whar I kin borry a rabbit foot at?”

He sprang up, began to search his pockets, and announced tragically:

“I ain’t got no luck-charms but a buckeye, a raw pertater, de toof of a hoss, an’ de foot of a mud-turkle!”

Then happening to glance down to where a road ran around the foot of the hill on which the church was located, he waved his arms wildly and bellowed:

“Hey, Figger Bush! Come over here a minute! Come prompt, cullud man!”

Figger looked up, vaulted the churchyard fence, and came up the hill toward them, wading through weeds shoulder high.

“Don’t you say nothin’ ’bout dat book till I borrers his rabbit foot, Skeeter!” Vinegar admonished in a low tone as the two watched Figger’s approach.

A moment later, Vinegar said:

“Figger, ain’t you got no luck-charms or rabbit foots dat you kin loant me fer a little while?”

“Naw,” Figger grinned. “Dey don’t do no good. I done tried ’em out!”

“Does you believe in dreams, Figger?” Skeeter asked after the three had seated themselves.

“Shore!” Figger answered, “I dreamed ’bout a rabbit las’ night. De Revun is done reminded my mind by axin’ ’bout my rabbit foot.”

“I’s gwine tell you whut dat dream means, Figger,” Skeeter announced, looking at his book. “‘Rabbit--To dream of a rabbit denotes some bad accidunt.’”

Have you ever seen a goose sitting in a summer shower when a big drop of rain hits him on the top of his head? A whitish film comes over his eyes, he looks up at the sky with a ludicrous appearance of meekness and humble supplication, then ducks his head beneath his wing and waits for the worst to happen.

When this appalling interpretation of his dream struck Figger on the top of his head he looked up at the sky with filmed eyes, then walked to the middle of the churchyard and stood upright with legs as wabbly as those of a new-born calf.

“Fetch me a chair out here, Skeeter,” he howled. “Don’t make me stan’ up any longer--I mought fall over an’ bust my head or somepin. I’s gwine set out from under dat tree! Set down in dat chair, Skeeter, an’ see ef it is solid--it might break down an’ run one of dem spokes clean through me.”

Skeeter tested the chair, and Figger sank down upon it with an air of thankfulness. Then he sighed:

“I shouldn’t had walked through dem high weeds comin’ up here--I bet dar is a snake in dem weeds as long as a railroad track!”

Thus, in one minute, Figger Bush had reduced himself to a hopeless imbecile. The other two looked upon him with pity and compassion, trembling at the dire portent of their own dreams and entering into full fellowship of sympathy with Figger. They sat for a few minutes in silence, then Skeeter Butts announced:

“I reckin I better mosey back to de Hen-Scratch.”

“Us is gwine wid you, Skeeter,” the other two announced promptly. “We is all sons of sorrer, an’ we oughter stick togedder.”

* * * * *

At the Hen-Scratch saloon they found Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, and Pap Curtain.

“Whut ails you-alls?” Hitch inquired curiously as he gazed into the frightened faces of his three friends. “You niggers look like you is jes’ foun’ out you wus borned to die!”

“Dat’s a fack, Hitch,” Skeeter sighed, as he and his two companions seated themselves on a bench. “Us is all had bad dreams.”

“I had a dream las’ night,” Hitch announced in his deep, rumbling bass. “I dreamed I runned a donkey down an’ tied him to a tree, an’ he brayed all night. Dat dream woked me up an’ I like to never got to sleep no more.”

“Does you know whut dat dream means?” Skeeter asked.

“Naw, suh, it’s been worritin’ me all day.”

“Dis book tells whut dreams means, Hitch,” Skeeter exclaimed as he opened the pages.

The negroes bunched up close around him, and after a moment Skeeter found the place and read aloud:

“‘Donkey--If you see him runnin’, brings misfortune; if he is tied you will ex-per-i-ence great loss; if you hear him bray, signifies death.’”

As Hitch Diamond received this intelligence he was a study for the psychologist. His iron features seemed to disintegrate, becoming a heterogeneous mass of conflicting emotions; his giant form seemed to shrink until his garments became too large, and hung loose and flapped around him; his scalp moved, forming a wedge on the top of his head, the point of the wedge at the apex of his skull.

“Oh, swelp me!” Hitch mourned. “I shore hab put up a job on myse’f dis time!”

The negroes gazed upon him with mournful curiosity, but none offered encouragement or sympathy. The fear of the unknown had gripped them all. In the blazing heat of the mid-afternoon, few living things were stirring, and an unearthly stillness seemed to pervade the entire town of Tickfall. In that vast silence of sun-slashed sky, and drooping, withering earth, and quiet animate life, these six men sat, filled with superstitious awe, appalled by fear of the unknowable, confidently anticipating the very worst of misfortune.

After a long time, Pap Curtain began to fidget.

“Say, Skeeter,” he whispered, “I don’t hanker atter no trouble, but I dreamed ’bout a cart las’ night. I’s jes’ bound to know whut dat means. See if----”

His whisper ended in a gasp as Skeeter began to turn the pages of the mysterious book with nervous, shaking fingers.

Pap waited, a picture of fear. His long neck rising from his collarless shirt seemed to stretch longer; his mouth, naturally so wide that one could sling a side of bacon into it, hung open loosely, and moisture appeared upon his cracked lip which retained a habitual sneer; his large, shifty eyes rolled back in his head like the eyes of a choking horse; then Skeeter pronounced his doom:

“Here ’tis,” Skeeter said, in a voice which sounded unnaturally loud, and which made every listener jump. “‘Cart--Its ap-pear-ance indicates ser-i-ous in-ju-ry. If you go upon it or move from it, de in-ju-ry may prove fat-al.’”

“Oh, Lawd, ain’t I a fool nigger?” Pap mourned. “I wish I hadn’t ast nothin’ ’bout dat. I wus feelin’ powerful good up to now, but----”

He wiped the sweat from his face on his ragged shirt-sleeve, reached back and jerked a twist of perique chewing-tobacco from his hip-pocket, bit off a chew, and promptly spat it out on the ground with an exclamation of fear.

“I fergot, fellers!” he sighed. “Dat book specify serious injury. Dis terbaccer mought hab a dynamite cap wrapped up in it, an’ when I chaws dat cap de top of my head will be over yanside de Massassap’ River!”

He held the twist off at arm’s length, slowly released his fingers, and let it fall to the ground.

“Hey!” Hitch Diamond bellowed, flinching away. “Don’t git so brash all of a suddent--be keerful how you drap things aroun’ me! I done heerd a donkey bray, an’ dat shore signify death!”

Prince Total got up, walked with jerky steps like a string-halt horse into the saloon, and exercising the right of assistant bar-tender, helped himself to a liberal drink of red liquor; thus fortified, he came out and sat down again. He opened his mouth to speak several times, then closed it without a word. He was aching to know the interpretation of his last dream but dared not ask.

“Wus you aimin’ to ax somepin, Prince?” Skeeter finally inquired in a lugubrious tone.

Prince shook his head, and Skeeter took out a buckeye and began to shine it up by rubbing it upon the leg of his trousers. At last, when Prince could stand the suspense no longer, he asked in a feeble voice:

“Skeeter, I don’t hanker to wish no bad luck onto myse’f, but, please, suh, look an’ see do de book say anything about a wheel? I seed a wheel in my sleep las’ night.”

“Here ’tis,” Skeeter replied promptly. “Down close to de eend of de list. ‘Wheel--Is om-i-nous of evil.’”

“Dar now, Prince, you done got yourn,” Hitch Diamond bellowed.

“I knowed it wus somepin bad,” Prince remarked in a weak voice. “Nothin’ good don’t never happen to a nigger!”

Skeeter Butts dropped the book upon the ground, and it fell open with the laughing face of the gray-haired negro exposed to the view of the men sitting around him.

“Dat Swampo wus in cahoots wid de debbil, fellers,” Hitch remarked in a low tone, as he pointed to the picture. “He wus always potterin’ aroun’ wid buzzards an’ sich like. He teached me a song ’bout de turkey-buzzard when I wus jes’ a little shaver. It went like dis:”

“T-u tucky, t-u ti,
T-u tucky-buzzud eye!
T-u tucky, t-u ting,
T-u tucky-buzzud wing!”

“Aw, hush, Hitch!” Vinegar Atts bawled, as the lugubrious, recitative whine of this song greeted their ears. “Whut you wanter start somepin like dat fer?”

“I wus jes’ tellin’ you!” Hitch rumbled defensively.

“You niggers know whut?” Pap Curtain exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine to de Little Moccasin Swamp an’ hide out till dis bad luck goes by.”

“Me, too,” Prince Total proclaimed. “I ain’t gwine meddle aroun’ de white folks wid dis hoodoo on me. I’ll shore git serious injury.”

“Us, too,” the other darkies announced promptly.

“Wait till I locks up de Hen-Scratch, niggers!” Skeeter Butts begged. “I ain’t gwine sell no mo’ booze dis day.”

“Less stay close togedder, niggers,” Vinegar Atts whined as they started down the dusty road toward the swamp. “Lemme walk in de exack middle of you-alls!”

* * * * *

The nearest edge of the Little Moccasin Swamp lay four miles from Tickfall. It was an oblong stretch of deep, black mud, and deeper and blacker water, measuring twelve miles the longest way, and six miles at its widest.

Except for one place, along the Little Moccasin ridge, it was traversable only by those who knew the swamp well, and had the instincts of a fox or wolf.

It was full of cypress trees and cypress knees, canebrake, and rank weeds, pestilential with disease, and inhabited by countless insects, bugs, worms, snakes, and animate things of that general nature which bit or stung or poisoned. It was the last place on earth which a white man would seek to escape bad luck.

The sun had set before the six negroes came to that point where the swamp came right up to the dusty parish road and ended in a fringe of weedy undergrowth. In the midsummer heat this undergrowth was ten feet high, making a thick curtain and from the rotting vegetation beneath there came an almost overpowering smell.

As the six negroes walked down the silent road, the darkness in the woods, increased by the interlocked branches of the trees, was intense and overwhelming. The green fringe of the swamp weeds took on fantastic shapes, and the negroes, through their disordered imaginations, beheld claws and wings, and leering eyes, and sneering mouths, and snarling teeth, and painted upon the black canvas of the dark were all the slimy, horrid forms which fear could conceive.

At last they came to the bridle path which branched from the parish road and followed the Little Moccasin ridge to the Dorfoche bayou.

Up to this point in their flight the negroes had traveled in a bunch, but the narrow path now required that they go in single file?

“Who is gwine take de lead?” Skeeter Butts asked.

“Not me,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “My ole maw tole me dat I wus borned under de sign of de goat, but I ain’t gwine butt head-fust inter dat swamp. My dream specify fear, trouble, an’ sorrer. I got a plenty now!”

“I ain’t gwine lead,” Figger Bush said positively. “Ef one of dem big swamp jack-rabbits like de one I dreamed ’bout wus to hop acrost my path, I’d straddle eve’y tree in dat swamp!”

“I don’t figger on headin’ de peerade,” Pap Curtain proclaimed. “I got a hunch dat I better take good keer of myse’f. My dream specify serious injury. It don’t take hardly nothin’ to hurt a nigger ef luck’s agin him.”

“I backs out, too,” Prince Total declared. “Dat path ain’t wide enough fer no wagin wheel, but I ain’t sayin’ dat a wheel _cain’t_ run on it!”

“I’s gwine fetch up de rear,” Hitch Diamond boomed in his deep bass. “Misforchine, great loss, an’ death is a plenty fer po’ Hitchey to tote along wid de crowd ’thout gittin’ ahead of de bunch wid his load.”

“Less build us a fire so we kin see!” Skeeter Butts squealed. “I’s gittin’ de jig-jams standin’ here in de dark.”

“Us won’t need dis fire long,” Pap Curtain announced as he pointed to a yellow haze through the tree. “De full moon is comin’ up!”

“Bless Gawd fer dat!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Us needs two moons!”

When their fire was lighted, Skeeter Butts sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree which lay beside the road, and said:

“Fellers, dis book is shore handed me a wad of trouble an’ sorrer. It specify dat I is powerful bad an’ oughter git reformed befo’ I dies an’ goes to hell; it argufy dat secret enemies is trailin’ along atter me; an’ it orate dat chi-mer-i-cal plans is tryin’ to engage wid me!”

“Whut kind of plans is dem?” Vinegar Atts asked.

“I dunno, Revun,” Skeeter said miserably. “It ’pears to me like a preacher oughter know somepin ’bout dat. Whut does you figger it am?”

“Well, suh,” Vinegar announced, after a period of deep cogitation, “of co’se I would had to scuffle consid’able to git de real signify of dat long word ’thout no book of commontaters to read up on; but mos’ gin’ly speakin’, I argufies dat dem kind of plans is invenjums of de debbil.”

“How does you know?” Skeeter asked uneasily.

“I argufies dis way,” Vinegar declared, boring with his right middle finger into the palm of his left hand to emphasize his remarks: “Ef you is gwine die an’ go to hell ’thout reformin’ yo’ badness, of co’se yo’ secret enemies am de debbil an’ his angels, an’ dem plans you spoke ’bout is a kind of infernum machine like a cuttin’-box. I bet you git bofe yo behime legs chopped off befo’ to-morrer mawnin’.”

“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed pitiably. “I’s powerful glad dar’s a full moon to-night. She’ll git up over dem trees in a little while. I needs mo’ light!”

In the light of the fire, Skeeter brought out his dream book, and gazed at the red cover design.

“Ain’t dar no good dreams in dat book, Skeeter?” Figger Bush asked.

“Yes, suh, dis book is full of ’em,” Skeeter answered.

“Read us some, Skeeter,” Pap Curtain begged. “Ef we knows whut dey is, mebbe us kin dream ’em an’ bust de hoodoo.”

“Here is de fust one I sees,” Skeeter replied as he began to read laboriously: “‘Lion--To see one denotes admittunce to de sawciety of dis-tin-guish-ed pussons. To sit or ride on de back of a lion denotes de pro-tec-tion of some powerful pussonage. To dream of eatin’ de flesh of a lion denotes some high of-fice----”

“Aw, shuckin’s!” Prince Total exclaimed. “A nigger never could dream ’bout no lion. Us might dream ’bout a lizard.”

“You better not, Prince,” Skeeter warned him. “Listen to dis: ‘Lizard--Misfortune through false an’ de-ceit-ful friends.’”

“Fer de Lawd’s sake, Skeeter,” Vinegar howled impatiently. “Look over dat book an’ see ain’t dar no way to bust a bad hoodoo dream-sign!”

The pages of the dream book rustled for ten minutes while the negroes sat in expectant silence. At last Skeeter squealed:

“I done foun’ a new page, niggers! It’s all ’bout signs an’ omens. It say dis: ‘How-ever skep-ti-cal some pussons pro-fess to be on de subjeck of signs which ad-mon-ish an’ forewarn----’”

“Aw, cut dat out!” Hitch Diamond growled. “Us b’lieves in ’em--read de signs!”

Thus admonished, Skeeter began:

“‘Ef yo’ lef’ eye-brow be visited wid a tantalizin’ itchin’, be as-sured dat you are goin’ to look upon a painful sight--de corp’ of a valued frien’.”

Hitch Diamond sprang to his feet, while every negro gazed upon him with fearsome curiosity, at the same time, unconsciously reaching up and scratching their left eyebrows!

“Ef you niggers ain’t got no real objections, I’ll git out from under dis tree,” Hitch said in pitiful tones. “Dis tree is been here ’bout a millyum years, an’ I ’speck it’s gittin’ ready to fall over.”

“Dat’d shore wuck a bad accidunt on me,” Figger remarked as he moved to the middle of the road.

“Let Skeeter read some mo’ signs!” Prince Total howled as he walked out and squatted in the middle of the road like a frog. “Mebbe us kin find somepin dat’ll bust Hitch’s luck.”

“‘When you are af-fec-ted by itchin’ on de spine of yo’ back,’” Skeeter read, “‘be assured dat yo’se’f or some one near-ly re-lat-ed to you is about to suffer a violent death!’”

“My Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bawled.

There was silence for a quarter of an hour, while fear gripped the hearts of the negroes with iron fingers and squeezed out all hope, as we crush the water from a sponge.

Vinegar Atts was breathing like the exhaust of a steam engine.

“Revun Atts,” Skeeter said in a weak, frightened voice, “I feels powerful bad, an’ I was thinkin’ dat I’d like to hear a few advices of de Bible preached an’ a little religium singin’.”

“I cain’t he’p you now, Brudder,” Vinegar panted. “Wait till I git my breath back. How kin I bawl out wid de message when I’s all wind-broke like dis?”

Skeeter waited a few minutes, then turned to his dreadful dream book and began to read, mumbling to himself.

Suddenly Skeeter raised his head with a jerk and gazed up at the moon. He sprang to his feet and began to count on his fingers. The others watched him with intense curiosity. Finally he howled:

“He’p me, niggers; he’p me quick! Whut day of de mont’ is dis?”

“Dis is de twenty-six’!” Vinegar panted. “De day of de full moon.”

“When did de new moon come in?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“De new moon wus de tenth!” Pap Curtain informed him.

“Oh, Lawdy!” Skeeter howled, his voice breaking into a sob.

He squatted down and held the book close to the fire, reading aloud to himself in a low tone.

“How many days is passed since de new moon, brudders?” Skeeter inquired in a trembling voice.

“Sixteen!” Vinegar replied, after making the count.

“Us all had our dreams las’ night, didn’t we?” Skeeter squealed.

“Yes, suh,” the chorus answered.

“Lawdymussy, niggers, _we is saved_!” Skeeter screamed, waving his dream book about his head. “I done found a new page in dis book!”

“Whut do she say?” the chorus screamed.

“Listen to dis!” Skeeter panted: “‘Jedgments drawn from de moon’s age: Dreams on de fifteenth day atter de new moon _will not come to pass_; whatever bizzness a pusson undertakes dis day will prosper. De sixteenth day differs very little from de pre-ced-in’; but any undertakin’ on dis day will come to a foolish end.’”

“Bless Gawd!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, springing to his feet. “I’s gwine trust de Lawd an’ mosey back to Tickfall!”

“Hol’ on, niggers!” Skeeter squealed, as the others also sprang up.

Skeeter stooped over the fire and laid his little volume on the interpretation of dreams upon the hot ashes.

“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”

The Gift of Power

Vinegar Atts was in trouble.

He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket. Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.

After a long silence Vinegar said mournfully:

“I cogitate dat they done deeprive me of my goat, Skeeter.”

“Yes, sur; dat’s so, suh. It ’pears to me dat you is fightin’ it out wid yo’se’f fer de las’ place in de race.”

Vinegar Atts sighed. He picked up his pipe from the ground, filled it with strong perique tobacco, lighted it, then let the bowl drop off of the stem, scattering the ashes over his lap and spilling the tobacco. Not noticing the accident, Vinegar sucked vigorously on the stem, and gave himself up to gloomy meditations.

“I been de pasture of de Shoofly church fer twenty year hand-runnin’, Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked at last. “I begged de loose change outen de pockets of de white folks to build dat church. I wus de fust preacher an’ de onlies’ preacher dey is ever had dar. An’ now dey is gwine gib me de farewell go-by.”

“Dat new nigger preacher shore is makin’ a bull-eye hit wid de members,” Skeeter remarked. “You see, de members of de Shoofly church is done got acquainted wid yo’ ways. Dey done listened to dem same sermonts fer de las’ twenty year----”

“Dey listen but dey don’t heed,” Vinegar Atts interrupted disgustedly.

“Shorely. Dat’s de way mos’ church members is,” Skeeter replied. “But, you see, dis new preacher he comes in wid a new loud voice----”

“You gimme a good dram an’ two sour lemons an’ I kin beller louder dan any yuther preacher in de worl’,” Vinegar Atts declared.

“Suttinly,” Skeeter replied propitiatingly. “But dese Tickfall niggers is done got intimate wid yo’ bawl an’ it don’t sot heavy on deir minds no more. Dey figger dat dey needs a change of tone.”

“Dey shore is treated me jes’ like a feetball,” Vinegar mourned. “Kicked me aroun’ scandalous!”

“Is de cormittee fired you yit?” Skeeter asked sympathetically.

“Naw!” Vinegar exploded. “Ef dey fires me, I’ll punch de stuffin’ outen deir hides. But I ’spose dey is gittin’ ready to send me my resign.”

“Dat’s powerful bad,” Skeeter sighed. “I stuck to you like a frien’ because you is always been one of my bes’ silent customers. I talked for you awful hard, an’ holped you all I could. I’s sorry dat dey drapped you down.”

“Dat new preacher worked a buzzo on me,” Vinegar lamented. “He fotch up in dis town while I wus oozin’ along in de Shongaloo woods, an’ had all de cormittee pregaged befo’ I got back. Fust news I knowed he had done hogged all de hominy. He hadn’t oughter did me dat way.”

“He shore did ack familious wid anodder man’s job,” Skeeter agreed. “But whut made de mostes’ hit wus his looks: he’s got a new suit of clothes, an’ gold eye-specks, an’ a ruben ring. He waves a silk handkercher, totes a teethbrush an’ wears pink socks.”

“All dem things is jes’ like de curl in a pig’s tail,” Vinegar Atts proclaimed. “Dey is ornamental, but dey don’t make no more pig!”

“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter grinned. “But a pig whut ain’t got no ornamint twist in his tail a-tall is suttinly pure scrub!”

Vinegar stooped and recovered the bowl of his pipe, refilled it and began to smoke furiously. Skeeter fiddled with a brass wrist-watch which he wore with prideful ostentation. A hound dog lying upon the saloon steps scratched himself with such a noisy and monotonous knocking of his elbow against the boards that Vinegar roused himself and hurled maledictions and pine knots at him.

Then Skeeter asked:

“When is de cormittee gwine hold its las’ meetin’?”

“To-morrer night in my orfice in de Shoofly church,” Vinegar told him. “I figger dat’ll be de las’ time I’ll ever set by dat table. Of co’se, de cormittee will vote agin me an’ de church will vote wid de cormittee.”

“Whut is you gwine do fer a livin’?” Skeeter asked with interest.

“I done got me a job as Marse Tom Gaitskill’s butler,” Vinegar said. “Hitch Diamond, he used to buttle fer Marse Tom, but de kunnel specify dat Hitch couldn’t show no hon’able scars whar he hurt hisself wuckin’, so he fired him. I got Hitch’s job.”

“Dat wus good luck fer you,” Skeeter said in a delighted tone.

“Naw, suh, ’twas bad luck,” Vinegar said mournfully. “You see, Hitch is a member of dat church cormittee, an’ he’s gwine vote agin me because I picked up de job whut he drapped.”

“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed. “You is like a snake whut’s got his tail in his mouf--jes’ spinnin’ aroun’ yo’se’f in a circuous ring!”

Vinegar picked up his hat and stood up.

“I got to mosey up to Marse Tom’s, Skeeter,” he said. “De kunnel is gwine hab big comp’ny tonight. I’s much obleeged fer yo’ pity in my many troubles.”

“Pick up a brave heart, Vinegar,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Mebbe de good Lawd will pervide.”

“I ain’t so certain ’bout dat, Skeeter,” Vinegar replied gloomily, as he walked out of the yard. “It looks to me mighty like Proverdunce is done busted a dynamite cap under my shirt!”

* * * * *

Four men sat around the table in the Gaitskill dining-room. The covers had been removed, and they were devoting themselves to an evening of boyish frolic. Everything went.

There was Colonel Tom Gaitskill, an ideal host, courtly, genial, whose fountains of humor never went dry, making him eternally young. Near him sat the Reverend Dr. Sentelle, eloquent, scholarly, whose fine face, seamed and wrinkled with suffering, was written all over with the literature of experience. Across the table was John Flournoy, the sheriff whose reputation exceeded the boundaries of the State, a man with a giant’s form and strength, a woman’s tenderness, and the courage of a host of jungle beasts.

And the guest of honor for the evening was Gaitskill’s life-long friend, Captain Lemuel Manse, a retired millionaire, who had received his title from the fact that he was owner of that beautiful sea-going yacht, whose keel had cut the waters of every sea upon the globe, and which had brought to Tickfall the never-to-be-forgotten Diada.

For four hours Vinegar Atts had served them in that dining-room, silent, watchful, with some mysterious instinct foreseeing the minutest need of every guest and meeting it before the guest himself was conscious what his need was.

The talk had become reminiscent.

“Say, Lem,” Colonel Gaitskill remarked, “do you remember how we used to scare the everlasting gizzards out of the niggers on the plantation by holding spiritualistic séances in their cabins?”

“Will I ever forget it?” Captain Manse laughed. “The darkies used to run when they saw me coming!”

“I wonder if you have forgotten how to make the table dance?” Gaitskill asked.

Captain Manse promptly pushed back his chair.

Vinegar Atts had no idea what was going to happen, but he knew instinctively that the table should be cleared. His long arms reached over the shoulders of the men and the liquors and the cigars were placed upon the sideboard.

With fun sparkling in his magnetic eyes, Manse arose and began the repetition of a stunt which had amused him half a century before.

“Gentlemen,” he began, in a sing-song voice, imitating the manner of the professional mediums, “there is an even number of us present, which makes a perfect spiritualistic ring. I presume you will smile and chuckle and fling unholy jests at the wonderful miracles which I perform, but I shall most certainly convince you of my close communion with the spirits of the unseen world. You might doubt a professional test, but this is an amateur séance. Here is no hidden machinery. Here are no paid confederates. You are my best friends, and why should I try to fool you? We are all sincere and open to conviction, and any results which are obtained must surely be authentic.”

This address concluded amid laughter and applause.

The four men drew up to the heavy mahogany table and placed their hands upon its polished top, palms down.

“My friends,” Captain Manse said in a husky whisper, “you will all keep silent, please. You will notice that it looks impossible for any person to move this heavy table by merely placing the hands upon it. No strength can be put into the open palms, it is impracticable to pull or lift or push from the elbows. The legs or feet cannot be brought into use, for they are not allowed to touch the board. And yet the table will move! Silence, gentlemen! If a spirit is present, he will give us a message through the table!”

Several long minutes slowly passed. No sound was audible except the steady, deep breathing of the four men sitting at the table.

As for Vinegar Atts, respiration had ceased some minutes before.

Suddenly, after the long strain of tense silence, Dr. Sentelle, the semi-invalid, took a deep breath--a sigh--and the heavy table rose slowly, teeteringly, under his delicate, fragile, blue-veined hands!

“Ah, some spirit has come at last,” Captain Manse exclaimed in a deep, sepulchral, sing-song undertone.

Again there was total silence, and the strain of waiting, and the sweating palms of the men outspread upon the table; Sheriff Flournoy took a long, deep breath.

Again the table tipped, bumped against the floor, and settled down!

“Dr. Sentelle,” Captain Manse spoke in a tone hushed and full of awe, “the spirit of my long-lost dead poll-parrot will answer any question which you desire to ask!”

Dr. Sentelle sighed audibly.

He raised his eyes toward the ceiling and in a low, thrilling, beautiful voice, he asked:

“Are you happy, Polly-parrot, since you became a bird of paradise?”

Instantly, the heavy table struck the floor three times--bump! bump! bump! “Y-e-s.”

There was a whoop of laughter and the men sprang to their feet.

“By George!” Gaitskill exclaimed with a chuckle. “If some of the experiences Lem and I had when we were young were wiped out of my memory, I wouldn’t know my soul in eternity.”

“That’s right,” Captain Manse laughed. “I recall one Christmas day when Tom’s niggers were eating in the kitchen, Tom and I went in there and made that table dance all over the place and scared the darkies so they wouldn’t touch a bite of that Christmas dinner. Of course, we had to fake that stunt. In fact, most of this spiritualistic stuff is faked now.”

“How is it done?” Flournoy asked.

Captain Manse explained several of the methods by which the table-tipping fakes deceived the credulous public, then the talk drifted into national politics.

In a moment Gaitskill looked up with surprise. Did not Vinegar Atts know that the theme of politics called for liquors and cigars?

Vinegar Atts stood beside the door as motionless as a Chinese idol, and his black face, expressive of meditation, mystification, fright and awe, made him almost as ugly as an idol.

But the colonel’s look galvanized him into action, and he was once more the silent, well-oiled, efficient machine of service.

“Let’s move out on the gallery, gentlemen,” Gaitskill suggested after a while. “We’ll find it cooler there.”

As the men passed out, Gaitskill lingered a moment and said:

“That’s all, Vinegar. You are dismissed for the evening.”

Vinegar Atts pulled the doors of the dining-room together, waited a moment until he was sure the men had settled themselves upon the gallery, and then he did a very unusual thing.

Seating himself at the mahogany table in the chair which Captain Manse had occupied, he spread his immense black hands palm-downward upon its shiny surface and with a perfect imitation of Manse’s manner, sat there for five minutes, in ludicrous, pop-eyed expectation, waiting for something to happen!

He looked up at the ceiling, and down to the table. He pushed on the table-top with all his strength. He drew in a breath which seemed to consume all the air in the room, and emitted a sigh like the exhaust of a blast furnace--but all to no avail.

“It cain’t be did widout plenty practice,” he assured himself. “But I ain’t got nothin’ to do all de rest of dis night but kotch on how to make her jigger!”

He went out to his cabin in the rear of the Gaitskill yard and sat down beside a cheap pine table.

When morning dawned he was still sitting there, puffing and blowing, his sweating palms pressed downward upon the table’s rough surface, his credulity unshaken despite his failure, waiting for something to happen!

“Lawd,” he sighed. “She ain’t even wagged her tail fer me all night long!”

* * * * *

Vinegar Atts spent the day in various activities, some of them of a personal nature, and some under the direction of Colonel Gaitskill.

When evening came he was free, and started on a gloomy walk to the office of the Shoofly church, where the Committee on Pulpit Supply was to hold its last session and determine whether Vinegar should retain the pulpit which he had occupied for twenty years, or surrender his prophet’s mantle to another.

Sitting around a cheap pine table in the middle of the room, Vinegar found Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, Figger Bush and Skeeter Butts. Of the four, Skeeter was now his only friend.

At the end of the table sat the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe, a tall, black, thin-faced, ladder-headed negro, whose clothes were so loud that they proclaimed the man a block and a half away. He bore himself with an air of triumph, and gazed upon Vinegar Atts with a look of mingled pity and contempt.