Chapter IV: Stunt Stuff!

Five personages arrived at the fishing camp on Lake Basteneau early the next morning.

First came Rev. Vinegar Atts and Miss Cordona’s New Orleans lover, the latter wearing clothes of the newest model and a slick smile of the most recent duplicity--a tall, slim, smooth-faced negro of the typical Ethiopian features and the air of a race-track tout.

Next came Miss Lalla Cordona in a hired buggy, as dressy as a cheap Christmas doll, radiant with smiles and quivering with vivacity and vital magnetism.

Then an automobile puffed along the swamp road and stopped in front of the camp and Shirley Rouke and Peter Pellet dismounted and unloaded their moving picture cameras.

“Dar now!” Vinegar Atts boomed. “Whenever a white man shows up at a nigger chu’ch, de niggers lose deir religion right away. Nobody bawls ‘Amen,’ nobody whoops ‘Hallelujah,’ an’ nobody gits happy. An’ when white mens shows up at a nigger fishin’ picnic--boof! de fun is done all over. Excusin’ dat, dem white men ain’t real pious--dey cuss!”

Skeeter Butts beat the New Orleans lover in a foot race to Miss Cordona’s buggy, helped her out, and engaged her in a rapid-fire conversation while he hitched her horse to a tree.

“Dem jewelry you got on yo’ pusson is shore squinchin’ to de eyes, Laller,” he proclaimed in admiring tones.

“Yes, suh,” Lalla remarked with self-satisfaction, as she preened herself before him revealing every excruciating gaud and gewgaw she could buy from the ten-cent store. “De man whut sold it to me told me dat ev’y piece was _rolled_ gold--he specify dat wus de purest kind of gold whut is!”

“Dat’s right!” Skeeter agreed. “You’s gwine be de only dazzle on dis fish camp--nobody cain’t shine while you is aroun’.”

When Skeeter beat him to the buggy, the city beau had simply lifted his hat to Lalla and walked away. At that moment the automobile arrived, and the stranger found consolation in watching the white men and their cameras.

Impelled by curiosity, the other negroes had gathered around, and the new coon saw a good opportunity to show off.

“Boss,” he inquired of Mr. Rouke, “is you-alls movin’ picture mens?”

“Yes.”

“Is you gwine take pictures of dis here lake?”

“Yes,” Rouke replied, as he busied himself setting up his machine.

The darky took off his hat, rubbed his head, hesitated a moment, then said in a pleading voice:

“Please, suh, boss, would you wish to take a picture of me doin’ some kind of stunts? I used to wuck in de movies an’ I likes it.”

“Who? You?” Rouke snapped, gazing at the negro with incredulous eyes. “What did you do in the studio?”

“I wucked fer a feller whut took de pictures. He lemme tote his extry films, and lemme hold his hat, an’ sometimes he gimme a board wid a number on it, an’ lemme stan’ in front of de picture-box while he turned de crank an’ tuck my tintype.”

Shirley Rouke saw that this speech had made an impression upon the negroes gathered around. He hesitated a moment, then said:

“What’s your name?”

“Dey calls me Sour Sudds.”

“All right, Sudds. You seem to have had considerable experience as a movie actor. Now if you can get some of these other people to get in it with you, I think I will take a picture of you all.”

“Come on, niggers!” Sudds bellowed in delighted tones. “Eve’ybody is gwine hab his tintype took! Hustle! Dese here white mens ain’t got no time fer foolishness!”

Under the leadership of Sour Sudds, the picnic party was eager to get into the picture.

“Is you gwine show us how to do, boss?” Sudds inquired.

“Certainly,” Rouke answered.

While Peter Pellet was adjusting his camera and placing his side lines, Rouke went into the fishing camp and brought out a small table and two chairs, which he placed in front of the camera.

“That won’t do, Pete!” he called, pointing to some lines which Pete had drawn in the sand. “You better get your cord and stretch it for your side lines like you do in the studio. These coons won’t pay any attention to a mark on the ground!”

Rouke hastened to the automobile and brought out a tray, two glasses, and a bottle of cheap wine, while Pellet readjusted his lines.

Then Vinegar Atts put in.

“Mister Rouke, I’s gwine be de umpire of dis here show because you an’ me done made a trade to dem effecks.”

“That’s right,” Rouke agreed, as his eyes ran over the crowd of negroes. “Get that black, dressy wench sitting beside that saddle-colored man!”

“Dat’s Laller an’ Skeeter!” Atts informed him.

“Get that black with the kinky hair and the shoebrush mustache!”

“Dat’s Figger Bush!”

The three actors were conducted to the front of the camera and Rouke gave his directions:

“Lalla, you and Sour Sudds sit down in the chairs beside that little table. Sour, you make love to the girl with all your might. Hold her hand, make goo-goo eyes, act like you loved her more than any other woman in the world----”

“Lemme do dat!” Skeeter Butts broke in.

Had there been a proneness to apoplexy in the Rouke family, Shirley would now be dead. As it was, Skeeter Butts never knew how near his interruption had brought him to a sudden and violent death. It is safe to say that nothing like that had ever happened before in the moving picture world.

“Buck up, Rouke!” Pellet spoke sharply. “Don’t scatter the beans!”

Rouke swallowed four times, then spoke in a voice as gentle as the tones of a butcher conducting some Mary’s little lamb into the slaughterhouse after the said lamb had butted him down:

“No, Skeeter. I’ll tell you what to do in a minute. I might also tell you where to go and some other things, but duty restrains my inclination.”

Then he turned to Figger Bush:

“Now, Figger, listen: when I give the word, you come over here and get this tray with the glasses and the wine bottle and bring it in and set it on the table between Lalla and Sudds. Then retire. Get me?”

“Yes, suh. I fotch it in an’ git out!”

“Sudds, you register love, infatuation--aw, I said that before! Lalla, you register maiden modesty, timidity, growing love. Now, Skeeter Butts, when I give the word you enter, walk up to the table where Sudds and Lalla are sitting, register jealousy, anger, desire for revenge; then catch Sour Sudds by the shoulder, lift him out of the chair, and take the seat yourself. Sudds, you walk off. Lalla, you look after him and register love.”

The actors moved to their places and Rouke gave the command:

“Now--ready--rehearse!”

The rehearsal was perfect. Rouke and Pellet were delighted.

“Now we are ready to take the picture!” Rouke exclaimed. “All of you act just like you did before!”

Then he gave the command which in the moving picture world starts the camera crank to turning:

“Ready--Action--Go!”

Thereupon, Reverend Vinegar Atts walked out and sat down on the table between Lalla and Sudds.

“Hol’ on, dar!” he bellowed, shaking his finger at the camera. “Don’t I git my picture took, too? You an’ me made a trade----”

“Cut!” Rouke snapped, which is the technical word of command to the camera artist to stop the picture.

“Get away from there, you fat fool! What you cut across the front for and spoil the picture? Get out!”

Rouke’s tone and gestures were so threatening that Vinegar jumped ten feet, tripped over a side line and fell on his head.

“Aw, the devil!” Pellet snarled savagely. “Now I got to set up that line again!”

He stooped and clawed around on the ground to find a rock to throw, but rocks are as scarce as ice-cream cones in a Louisiana swamp.

“Huh!” Vinegar grunted as he moved farther and farther away from the irate white men. “Dem white gen’lemens is done poured me back in de jug!”

“Now, we’ll start again!” Rouke proclaimed. “Ready, action, go!”

Lalla and Sour Sudds began their love play, the camera clicking off their perfect action.

“Now, Figger!” Rouke bawled. “Come on! Pick up the tray and walk to the table!”

Figger came on. And Rouke nearly threw a fit.

Seizing the tray in both hands, Figger held it in front of him in a strained, awkward manner; he side-stepped into the focus of the camera, set his eyes straight at the lens where the country photographers used to tell us the “little bird” could be seen, and marched face-on to the table; he set the waiter down without changing his full-face position toward the camera, backed ten feet, side-stepped out of the focus, then squealed and kicked up his heels much as a mule colt would act when turned into a pasture!

“My--good--gosh!” Shirley Rouke shrieked. That is to say, this is the only remark he made which the law would permit of publication. “What did you mean by that stunt?”

“I wus havin’ my picture took, boss,” Figger informed him in frightened tones, for Figger was appalled by the language he had heard.

“But--but--why didn’t you act natural?” Rouke spluttered.

“Dat ain’t no way to do, boss,” Figger declared. “When us niggers gits our tintypes koodaked us is got to show bofe foots, bofe hands, bofe eyes, and bofe ears. We don’t take no sideways picture. Ef us don’t show all of ourse’ves, de niggers will figger dat one eye done got gouged out, or one ear done been cut off. Yes, suh, dat’s right.”

“Shore!” a chorus of negro voices answered. “Us ain’t gwine hab our pictures took no way but straight on!”

In hopeless impotence, Shirley Rouke turned to Peter Pellet for aid and comfort, and beheld that artist doubled up, helpless with laughter.

“What’s the matter with you, you blue-mass pill?” Rouke bawled.

“Oh, lordy, Roukey,” Peter howled. “That’s the funniest stunt ever pulled before a camera! It’ll get a laugh from Broadway to the Chinese Yellow Sea. Buck up, and go on with the show!”

Rouke felt greatly mollified.

“All right! Get ready, now! Pour the wine in those glasses, Sudds! Ready! Action! Go!”

The steady click of the camera amid a breathless silence; then Rouke’s command:

“Come on, Skeeter! Come on!”

Skeeter came on!

He bounced into the picture with a perfect imitation of a she-bear approaching a man who was holding her squealing cub by the ear. Sour bad been too realistic in his acting, and Skeeter was jealous. He grabbed Sudds by the nose, shook him as a dog shakes a rat, grabbed the wine bottle and broke it over Sour’s head, then administered a punch on the jaw which sent Sudds reeling out of his chair to the ground.

Then Sudds came back. Seizing Skeeter by the nape of the neck, he pounded his head against the table until it rattled like a snare drum. Skeeter twisted and squealed until he managed to land a mighty kick in the pit of Sour’s stomach, then he sprang up, grabbed a chair and proceeded to use it as a club.

Sour seized the little deal-table, poised it above his head like a shield, and pranced around, receiving Skeeter’s frenzied blows on the top of the table instead of the top of his head.

Lalla Cordona backed slowly away from the fray, her shapely, beautiful hands clasped over her heaving breast, her breath coming in quick gasps, her face expressing emotions which alternated between fear and hope and horror and despair.

Then she swept forward with a grace and power simply majestic in its action, held out her hands to the furious men and spoke one word:

“Please!”

The negroes, whose view of the fight had been obscured by the camera and the bodies of Rouke and Pellet, started around them toward the front, where they could see.

“Keep out of the picture!” Rouke screamed. “I’ll kill the first nigger that moves!”

Skeeter and Sudds ceased their combat, dropped their weapons of war, and each held out his hands to Lalla Cordona, pleading, beseeching, each asking her approval of the part he had taken in the fray.

The girl stood for a moment looking from one to the other, hesitant, indignant.

“Don’t pay no mind to dat Sudds, Missy,” Skeeter pleaded. “His name proves dat he ain’t nothin’ but dirty dishwater, an’ his maw wus a cheap washlady. Come along wid me, an’ be my frien’! I loves you mo’ dan he do!”

“You niggers hike!” Lalla spoke.

Her voice bit into their souls like acid, and the men turned and started slowly away.

The girl stood looking after them a moment, then she ran to the tree where her horse was standing hitched.

Skeeter and Sudds sprang after her.

“Come back, Miss Laller!” they bawled in a duet. “Us’ll be real nice gen’lemens!”

“No!” she said sharply, as she untied her horse and sprang into the buggy. “I done had enough rough-housin’ to last me a long time. I’s gwine back to Tickfall!”

Drenched with perspiration, his face as red as blood, Shirley Rouke mopped the sweat from his forehead and gazed inquiringly at Peter Pellet.

Peter was panting like a hot dog, but his eyes blazed in triumph.

“I got it all, Roukey!” he said.