“Skeeter, whose pup wus dat you wus totin’ aroun’ on yo’ arm yistiddy?” Figger Bush asked as he sat down beside a table in the Hen-Scratch saloon. “I’d druther be dead dan be perceived packin’ a pup.”

“Dat warn’t no common growl-an’-bark dawg,” Skeeter grinned, blushing until his saddle-colored face turned to a deep brownish crimson. “Dat wus one of dese here Spitz dawgs. It b’longs to Tella Tandy, dat new gal whut jes’ come to Tickfall. I’s keepin’ it fer her.”

“How come she don’t keep it fer herse’f?” Figger inquired.

“She’s stayin’ down at Mustard Prophet’s cabin, an’ she’s skeart Mustard’s fox-houn’s will eat her dawg up—dar he comes now!”

The little Pomeranian racked across the sandy floor of the saloon, small sharp ears erect, his fine intelligent eyes sparkling, his thick hair as fine and glossy as silk. He leaped into Skeeter’s lap, and licked a tiny red tongue at Skeeter’s face.

“Look out, Skeeter!” Figger exclaimed, pushing his chair out of the danger zone. “Ain’t you skeart dat Spit dawg will spit in yo’ face?”

“Naw!” Skeeter replied disgustedly. “Dey jes’ calls him a Spitz dawg fer a name. Dat’s a manner of speakin’, as it were. Ef you buys a plug of Bull-dawg chawin’ terbaccer, you don’t especk to git bit, does yer?”

“You shorely muss be stuck on dat new gal ef you totes her dawg on de street an’ feeds him puffeckly good vittles in de Hen-Scratch saloom,” Figger replied, ignoring Skeeter’s question.

“I is in love wid dat gal,” Skeeter replied positively. “She’s shore easy to look at, Figger. An’ she specifies she is wuth one thousan’ dollars.”

“My Lawd!” Figger exclaimed fervently. “I’d be willin’ to tote a whole litter of Spit dawgs fer her!”

“I wants you to he’p me ketch her, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I needs about a thousan’ dollars to make some improvements in dis barroom, an’ escusin’ dat, de gal is plum’ wuth havin’.”

“Am she really got dat many money, or do she jes’ value her carcass at dat many dollars?” Figger asked suspiciously.

“I dunno,” Skeeter replied doubtfully. “All she said wus dat she wus wuth one thousan’ dollars.”

“Huh,” Figger grunted skeptically. “She mought be pricin’ herse’f too high.”

Suddenly the green-baize doors of the saloon were thrust aside, and a clear voice called:

“Oh, Skeeter! Come out here!”

Skeeter jumped like someone had popped a dynamite cap under his chair, and hastened out to the front. Figger followed slowly for the purpose of getting a good look at Skeeter’s new girl.

She was well worth seeing. She was as slim and straight and graceful as a stalk of sugar-cane; her color was a little darker than Skeeter’s; an Ethiopian type, with perfect features, a sinewy, cat-like movement of muscles under satiny skin, easy-smiling lips, which played constantly over perfectly beautiful teeth, and a speaking voice which any orator in the world would covet.

“Lawd,” Figger sighed enviously. “She’s wuth de thousan’ dollars, all right.”

“I wants my dawg, Skeeter,” Tella Tandy said. “I’s gwine down to de deppo to watch de train come in. Want to come wid me an’ tote de dawg?”

“No’m,” Skeeter answered regretfully, as he snapped his fingers and the little Spitz leaped under the saloon doors and sprang into his owner’s arms. “I got to make a livin’ keepin’ bar. I’ll go wid you some yuther time.”

The woman walked down the street and Skeeter returned to the table where he had been sitting. He sighed like a furnace and wiped the sweat from his face.

“Figger,” he said pantingly, “dat gal nearly gibs me de jim-jams eve’y time I sees her. I loses all de good sense I’m got. I feels like a fool an’ I acks like a fool, an’ ’pears to me like dat gal is laughin’ at me all de time.”

“I ’spect so,” Figger said commiseratingly, as he arose to go. “Dem females is mos’ in gineral laughin’ at us. But dem simpletoms you announce is shore a bad sign. Mattermony’ll ketch you ef you don’t watch out. Ef you needs any good advices, I ’speck you better send fer me.”

Figger sauntered down to the depot, watched the passenger train arrive and depart, and then hurried back to the Hen-Scratch saloon.

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” he howled, as soon as he entered the room. “Dat Tella Tandy went down to de deppo to meet a man an’ dat man looks like one of dese here watermillyumaires!”

“Lawdymussy!” Skeeter squeaked, springing to his feet. “I knowed my luck wus too good to last. Whar is dat new nigger man at?”

“Dey is bofe comin’ up dis way,” Figger informed him. “Dat new man is packin’ de Spit dawg. I figger de load will break him down about time he gits to de Hen-Scratch.”

For ten minutes the two sat in gloomy silence. Skeeter lighted cigarette after cigarette, twiddled his thumbs, jiggered his feet, and acted generally like a man with the St. Vitus dance. Figger was more composed. He was thankful that he was merely an innocent bystander. At last Skeeter sighed:

“Ef I lose dat gal, it’ll bust my heart, Figger. I been courtin’ her servigerous fer a week. My head is so full of tears now it would take a week to bail me out!”

Voices were heard at the door and Skeeter arose tremblingly and walked out. Tella and the strange man were waiting for him.

“Dis is my frein’, Mr. Deo Diddle, Skeeter,” Tella said easily. “I jes’ been tellin’ him how kind you wus to keep my dawg.”

“Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Skeeter mumbled, holding out his hand.

“Same back at you,” Deo replied. Then turning to Tella Tandy, he said: “Me an’ dis dawg is got a little bizzness wid Mr. Muskeeter Butts, Tella. You foller yo’ little nose down de street an’ see ef he don’t lead you somewhar else.”

Skeeter and Deo Diddle entered the saloon and sat down at the table with Figger Bush. The dog sniffed around the room for a minute and then passed out toward the rear.

Deo Diddle was about the size of Skeeter Butts, but it required no expert eyes to see that he was a perfect athlete. The poise of his head and body, the accuracy and decision of even the slightest move, the steady, assured gaze of his eyes indicated a man whose muscles and brain were trained in some field of endeavor which required both strength and wit.

“At de fust offstartin’, Mr. Butts,” Deo Diddle began easily, “I announces my bizzness an’ de puppus of my visit to Tickfall: I’s a Monarch of de Manacle.”

“You’s a—a—which?” Skeeter asked, his eyes sticking out like a bug’s.

“I gibs a show,” Deo Diddle explained. “I lets people handcuff me an’ I slips ’em off as easy as you kin take off a glove. I lets people nail me up in a box an’ I gits out as easy as you kin git outen dat chair. I lets people tie me in bed wid ropes an’ I gits loose as easy as a pickaninny kin fall outen a hammock. An’ on de side, I tells forchines, reads minds, finds lost treasures, an’ gives a few sleight-of-han’ tricks.”

“Huh!” Skeeter and Figger grunted in a duet.

“Yes, suh,” Deo Diddle went on. “I done hired dat hall down in de settlemint called Dirty-Six, an’ I’s gibin’ a show eve’y night fer three nights. Would you wish to come?”

“I shore would!” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly.

“I’s glad to hear you say dat, suh,” Deo replied. “I’s gwine gib a free pass to you an’ Mr. Bush, an’ I hopes you will speak up my show fer me. Admission ten cents fer chillun an’ two-bits fer growed-ups!”

He handed Skeeter and Figger a slip of paper apiece, and rose and walked out of the saloon, leaving the two men to gaze after him in speechless astonishment. After a long time, Figger remarked:

“You done got yo’ wuck cut out fer you, Skeeter. You know how batty female womans is about show folks!”

A show given by negroes will attract other negroes as a barrel of molasses attracts flies. The little hall in Dirty-Six was filled to its capacity a long time before the hour of the exhibition.

Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush occupied the front seat directly facing the center of the stage.

“Whar is Tella Tandy, Figger?” Skeeter asked uneasily, scanning the faces in the crowd. “I went to her house atter her an’ dey tole me she’d done went. But I don’t see her.”

“She’ll git here on time,” Figger assured him. “She ain’t hatin’ dis Deo Diddle none, an’ she’ll watch him pufform.”

Then the ragged curtain parted in the middle, one half being pulled to each side of the stage.

“Ladies an’ gen’lemans,” Deo Diddle began, “I’s gwine gib a refined exhibition of sleight-of-hands fust of all, an’ I defy anybody to kotch me at my tricks.”

The stunts which followed were too simple and commonplace to mention, but they were wonderful because new to the Tickfall negroes. In a little while the whole house was vocal with the comments of the spectators, who made remarks in a loud voice, and sometimes got into an argument with some friend across the room.

“My Lawd,” Hitch Diamond bellowed, when he saw the performer break an egg in a pan, scramble it, light an alcohol lamp and cook it, then lift out of the pan a live goose. “My Lawd, dat pufformance is agin nature!”

“’Tain’t so!” the Reverend Vinegar Atts bawled from the other side of the house. “De Good Book says us shall see wonders in de heaven above an’ de yearth beneath——”

“Aw, go up dar wid de buzzards!” Hitch Diamond retorted in a disgusted tone. “Not even de good Lawd could make a nigger hatch a goose outen a scrambled hen’s egg!”

In the meantime, Deo Diddle had turned his attention to a stove-pipe hat belonging to Vinegar Atts, and was winding yard after yard of colored paper out of the crown, catching it upon a wand.

“Us knowed you never did carry no brains in dat hat, Revun, even when you had it on yo’ head!” Pap Curtain guffawed.

The spectators were getting their money’s worth when Deo Diddle suddenly changed the performance.

“Friends,” he announced, “I’s gwine interjuice you to de mos’ wonderful woman in de worl’. She kin set right here in dis chair an’ tell you-alls all about yo’se’ves! She don’t know nobody in dis town, but she is gwine mention names an’ tell secrets out loud whut nobody ain’t told her but de departed sperits of de yuther land!”

At that moment Tella Tandy walked out upon the stage and sat down.

Skeeter Butts sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation, then sank back again with a cold sick sensation at the pit of his stomach.

“Dat means I done lost my little she-goddess, Figger,” he sighed pitifully. “’Tain’t no use to hope no more.”

“Aw, pert up, Skeeter!” his friend urged. “You ain’t drapped de pertater yit!”

Tella Tandy appeared to be in a trance. She looked with unseeing eyes over the faces of the crowd, then began in a weak, uncertain voice:

“I ketch de name of Vinegar Atts—I sees a fly—shoo fly!—church. Revun Atts is ’postlizin’ in de pulpit—de elder is gwine hab trouble in de cong’gation—he better watch his eye——”

“I ketch de name of Prince Total—Marse Tom am lookin’ fer dat lost demijahm whut Prince borrered—I ’speck Prince better fotch dat jug back befo’ he keeps it buried too long by dat pine stump——”

“I ketch de name of Pap Curtain—Pap is a slick-head nigger—a word from de sperit lan’ tells Pap dat he better ketch de trabbel itch an’ hike—de gram-jury meets nex’ week——”

For twenty minutes this revelation held the audience in tense, dreadful silence—twenty minutes of frightful retrospection and introspection, and when a negro’s name was mentioned that darky suffered a nervous shock from which he did not recover for a week. Even if his name was not mentioned, the darky was afraid it would be, and was appalled at what the revelation might be.

At last Tella Tandy rose from the chair, felt her way toward the side of the stage as if she were blind, rubbed her hands over her dazed eyes, and exclaimed in a dramatic voice:

“De book of de recordin’ angel is closed, an’ de sperit land reveals no more!”

“Bless Gawd!” Hitch Diamond bellowed fervently.

Deo Diddle then brought out a cot and set it in the middle of the stage. He threw down upon the floor a coil of rope many feet in length and addressed the audience:

“I wants about ten men to come up on dis flatform and tie me to dis cot. I offers to bet ten dollars I kin git loose in two minutes!”

“I takes dat bet, bully!” Skeeter Butts squealed as he sprang to his feet and climbed upon the platform.

“Me, too!” came a chorus of voices, and Vinegar Atts, Prince Total, Pap Curtain, Hitch Diamond, and a number of others who had been accused of various crimes and misdemeanors by Tella Tandy followed Skeeter to the stage.

They carefully examined the cot and rope. Then Deo Diddle stretched himself out upon it, lying flat upon the mattress with his feet together and his hands down at his sides. Vinegar Atts and Hitch Diamond passed the rope around and around him, crossing and crisscrossing it over his feet and body and neck until he was swathed like a mummy and apparently as helpless.

Then the committee climbed off the platform and left Deo to free himself in full view of the crowd.

Deo entertained the crowd for a minute by a mighty struggling and tugging and jerking and grunting, but all the while Deo’s right hand was resting upon a lateral bar under the cot which held the mattress taut. At the proper time Deo simply slipped this bar out of its fastening on one side of the cot; the mattress sagged down in the middle like a hammock, with the many coils of rope across Deo, but hardly touching his body.

Then Deo climbed from under the rope as easily as a pig slips through a gap in the fence and was free!

The shout of applause which greeted this performance almost lifted the roof, and amid the noise Deo and Tella quickly removed the cot so that the committee could not examine it again.

“Us will hab a entirely diffunt show tomorrer night, my frien’s,” Deo announced when the noise and excitement subsided. “I is knowed all over de worl’ an’ in Yurope as de Monarch of de Manacle. I’s de only real nigger Handcuff King in dis country. Tomorrer night I’s gwine hab eve’y kind of handcuff whut is used by de sheriffs an’ policemens of dis country an’ furin parts, and I’ll let you handcuff me up any way you please, an’ ef I don’t git loose in five minutes I’ll gib you twenty-five dollars reward. Fetch all de handcuffs you is got aroun’ de house an’ watch de Handcuff King pufform!”

“I’ll git dat reward-bill!” Skeeter Butts squealed.

“All right, pardner!” Deo laughed. “Do yo’ durndest! Good-night!”

While the people were leaving Skeeter Butts climbed back upon the stage and confronted Tella Tandy.

“Is you married to dis Deo Diddle, Tella?” he asked earnestly.

“Suttinly,” Tella laughed. “Ain’t Deo a wonder?”

“Whut you mean by makin’ a fool outen me?” Skeeter demanded.

“Don’t pick no fuss wid me, Skeeter!” Tella said. “Dis is a free country an’ you made love at me wid yo’ own mind. I couldn’t he’p it ef you handed me yo’ heart tied up in a paper-sack.”

Skeeter glared at her a moment, then turned and started away.

“I don’t bear you no grudge fer dem lovin’ words, Skeeter,” Tella snickered.

Skeeter Butts spent a large part of the night in deep meditation.

The next morning all his friends crowded into the Hen-Scratch to discuss the show. Tella Tandy’s revelations interested them most.

“How come dat purty little coon knowed all about me so good?” Vinegar Atts wanted to know.

“How did she know dat a gram-jury meetin’ is de real sign fer me to leave dis town?” Pap Curtain inquired.

“How did she guess dat I swiped Marse Tom Gaitskill’s licker-jug an’ had it hid out ferninst a pine stump?” Prince Total wanted to know.

“I kin answer all dem ’terrogations, niggers,” Skeeter Butts grinned. “When dat gal fust come to town I didn’t know she wus connected up wid no show, an’ I didn’t had no idear she wus married, an’ I armed her aroun’ an’ tried to git her to love me. She axed me about a millyum questions about you-alls, an’ las’ night when she pulled up dat stunt she was jes’ repeatin’ over whut I done tole her!”

“My Lawd!” Prince Total exclaimed. “Dat warn’t no fair. I wus mighty nigh skeart to death.”

“I reckin so,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Yo’ mem’ry ain’t loaded wid nothin’ but blank ca’tridges ontil people begins to talk about yo’ meanness—den yo’ shore is got plenty ammunition of remembrunce.”

“I hope she ain’t gwine pull no more of dat stuff,” Pap Curtain said uneasily. “How much did you tell her ’bout me, Skeeter?”

“She’s done turned loose all she knows,” Skeeter replied.

“I hope so,” Pap said menacingly. “Ef she revelates any mo’ about me I knows a yeller-faced bar-keep’ who is gwine hab his mug pounded into anodder color.”

“No danger—I ain’t skeart,” Skeeter said with a dry grin. “I realizes dat wus a mistake.”

There was silence for a few minutes, a drink for the crowd at Skeeter’s expense, and then Skeeter mentioned a plan he had matured in the night:

“Cain’t us niggers fix up some kind of buzzo on dat gal an’ git even wid her?” he asked.

“Whut mought dat buzzo be?” Vinegar Atts inquired.

“Well, suh, I figgers it out dis way: Dat Deo Diddle is offered a reward fer any handcuffs he can’t git out of. Now ef Sheriff Marse John Flournoy would only loan us some handcuffs——”

“Listen to dat nigger’s brains a-poppin’!” Prince Total exclaimed in extreme admiration. “Fer mussy sake, Skeeter, go see Marse John right now. I’ll keep dis saloom.”

The crowd sat down to wait while Skeeter hastened to the courthouse, entered the sheriff’s office, and stood, hat in hand, grinning at Mr. John Flournoy.

“Come in, Skeeter,” Flournoy said. “I won’t lend any money, won’t hear any nigger love scrapes, won’t give any advice, won’t listen to any of your troubles. Excusing all those things, what else do you want?”

Skeeter grinned. As he would have expressed it, Marse John was his “kinnery.” He had grown up in a cabin in the sheriff’s yard, and this big-bodied, kind-hearted sheriff held few terrors for Skeeter.

“Dar, now, Marse John, you’ll shore hab room fer a good appetite atter you is got all dem words offen yo’ stomick. I come to git a view from you about how to colleck a twenty-five dollars reward-bill.”

“That’s interesting,” Flournoy grinned. “Let’s have the details.”

“Well, suh, a nigger is habin’ a show in dis town an’ he calls hisse’f a Handcuff King. He specify dat he’s a Monarch of de Manacle. He argufy dat dar ain’t no kind of handcuff made dat he can’t git hisse’f loose from in less’n five minutes. Does you reckin dat is so, Marse John?”

“Certainly,” the sheriff answered promptly.

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

This was one theme upon which the sheriff was competent to speak. He leaned back in his chair, lighted a cigar, and began:

“There are one hundred and forty-two varieties of handcuffs and leg-irons manufactured in the civilized world, Skeeter, but there are only thirty-two separate brands which are registered for use by officers of the law in the United States. Four master keys will unlock all thirty-two of these leg-irons and handcuffs.”

“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed.

“I venture to say that that negro showman has all the regulation handcuffs in use in this country, as well as some of European manufacture. Of course, he also has the keys to unlock them.”

“Whar do he tote de keys?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“Oh—everywhere!” Flournoy smiled. “In the lining of his clothes, in his shoes and socks, in his sleeves and cuffs, down his collar, even in his mouth—everywhere!”

“Huh!” Skeeter grunted. “Dat’s too bad.”

There was a long silence while Flournoy smilingly watched Skeeter think. The negro’s face was a pantomime of conflicting emotions, and the general effect made for gloom and depression. Finally Flournoy spoke:

“My information seems to discourage you, Skeeter. What’s the problem?”

“It’s dis way, Marse John,” Skeeter said earnestly. “Dat uppity, biggity nigger is done offered twenty-five dollars reward fer any handcuff he cain’t git off in five minutes, an’ I figgered dat I had a show to make de money.”

Flournoy thought a moment, then broke into a loud chuckle.

“I think you have a splendid chance to copper the coin, Skeeter. Wait here a minute!”

Flournoy opened a steel door, walked to the rear of the vault, and pawed over a lot of trash in one corner. Then he came out and tossed a handful of police hardware on the floor at Skeeter’s feet.

“I think they will hold him,” Flournoy laughed.

Skeeter gasped as he eyed the cruelest collection of manacles and shackles he had ever seen.

There was a pair of home-made wrought-iron handcuffs with a stiff iron bar a foot long to connect the bracelets instead of a chain. There was a pair of cumbersome leg-irons which were used a half century ago in Southern convict camps, but whose use is now prohibited. And there was something else which gave Skeeter a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach merely to look at. It was a pair of trigger cuffs. Any attempt to loosen them by the wearer has the effect of tightening the bracelets while at the same time a needle trigger presses deeper and deeper into the flesh of the wrist until the captive is helpless with pain.

“When I was first elected sheriff, forty years ago, this stuff was in use, Skeeter. I won’t give you the keys to these manacles. If you get them on that coon he’ll certainly need me! You can telephone me at the house to-night after Deo the Diddle forks over that twenty-five plunks to you!”

Skeeter wrapped the hardware in a newspaper and trod on air as he walked back to the Hen-Scratch saloon. When he told the waiting crowd of his success and showed them the manacles the darkies had a jubilee and then waited with the impatience of children for the night to come.

The front row of seats was occupied that night by Skeeter Butts, Figger Bush, Vinegar Atts, Pap Curtain, Prince Total, Hitch Diamond, and a few others of that type who were smarting under the public revelations of the recording angel the night before.

The house was crowded to suffocation and the performance consisted of fortune-telling, feats of magic, singing, and dancing.

At last the time came for the Monarch of the Manacle to make good his boast that he could get out of any handcuff or leg-iron which the community could provide for his bonds.

Up to this time Deo had found it perfectly safe everywhere to offer to release himself from any handcuffs which the negroes could provide, for a handcuff was something which no negro possessed, and with all their barbaric love of jewelry it was an ornament which no darky cared to wear. When no manacles were supplied by the audience, Deo would then invite a committee to come upon the stage and examine his. He would present forty different kinds for their inspection and let them choose any sort to place upon his legs and wrists. As they were all familiar to Deo, well oiled and in good condition, he had no trouble in releasing himself.

But this time Deo Diddle was up against it!

Skeeter Butts was Sheriff John Flournoy’s “nigger.” And for that reason he was probably the only colored person in the South who could go to a sheriff and get the assortment of manacles which he now had wrapped in a newspaper and hidden under his seat.

When Deo invited a local committee to come upon the stage, asking for anyone who would volunteer, every occupant of the first row of seats sprang to his feet and started for the platform.

This prompt and concerted action told Deo Diddle that he was in danger, that the men were out for his blood. He was frightened, and although he tried to carry himself with an easy manner it was apparent to all the committee that he was anxious and distrait.

Deo promptly decided not to ask for any handcuffs to be provided by the people in the assembly. To cover his retreat he began his announcement of the next evening’s performance:

“Dis is de las’ stunt on our plogram to-night, but tomorrer we is gwine hab de biggest show of all. I’ll ax a cormittee to nail me up in a box atter dey has handcuffed me, an’ I’ll let ’em tie de box up wid a rope, an’ I’ll promise to git out in five minutes!”

Then for twenty minutes Deo entertained the audience by escaping from his own leg-irons and handcuffs. The negroes devised every sort of method to manacle his legs and wrists, but when the curtain of the little booth which was rigged upon the stage had been pulled together in half a minute or a minute Deo walked out a free man!

Then Skeeter Butts unwrapped his newspaper and tossed his assortment of police hardware at the feet of Deo Diddle!

Deo looked down at that appalling mass of wrought iron and steel and shuddered. He had never seen anything like them before. His heart stood still and his breath stopped. Then he laughed, a nervous, cackling, uneasy laugh, merely to gain time to think.

He picked up the three dreadful instruments and held them before the audience—the wrought-iron bracelets with the lateral bar—old, rusty, out of date, the keyhole filled with rust and dirt; the horrible leg-irons which a man could not escape from in half a day with the use of a sharp file, and the cruel trigger cuffs with their torturing needle. He described each fetter minutely, explained how it was made, told how quickly and easily he expected to escape from its bonds, all the time praying desperately for some way of escape from his awful predicament.

During this speech Tella Tandy came and sat down beside Skeeter Butts. Skeeter grinned triumphantly into her face, then gave his entire attention to the spiel of Deo Diddle. Several times Tella spoke to Skeeter, but he answered in gruff tones and finally told her to shut up.

Then Deo did something which made Skeeter’s jaw drop with despair—he closed each of the gaping manacles with a loud snap!

And Skeeter did not have a key to open them again!

Then Tella Tandy did a most astounding thing—she sprang to her feet with a loud, shrill scream!

Everybody turned and looked at her with astonishment—Skeeter Butts most astonished of all.

“Whut you mean by sayin’ dat to me, Skeeter Butts?” she whooped. “You is a low-down nigger to insult a lady like dat! Oh, my Gawd!”

Tella put her hands over her face and staggered from the stage, crying aloud like a baby.

Skeeter Butt’s jaw dropped down and he gaped like an idiot—he had not said a word or done a thing!

He was so startled by the woman’s accusation and her dramatic exit that when he tried to speak and deny his guilt he stammered and spluttered and looked guiltier than ever.

“Whut you mean by insultin’ my wife, you low-down animated outrage?” Deo Diddle howled, approaching Skeeter with blood in his eye.

“I—I—didn’t—say—nothin’!” Skeeter stammered.

“Kill him! Put him out! Bust him one in de jaw!” the men in the audience roared, as they listened to the heart-rending wails of the caterwauling Tella Tandy somewhere in the wings.

Deo Diddle’s fist lunged out with all his strength behind it. Skeeter ducked, dodged under the showman’s arms, grabbed up Sheriff Flournoy’s criminal hardware, and fled for his life.

The next morning Skeeter was kept busy explaining to his many patrons that he had been guilty of no offense and that Tella Tandy had played a trick on him to keep him from winning the twenty-five dollars.

To Skeeter’s surprise, nobody believed him.

“Naw, suh,” the reverend Vinegar Atts proclaimed, “you muss hab said somepin shameful to dat little gal. She wusn’t show-actin’ when she bust out cryin’ like dat.”

“Dat’s de way I figger,” Hitch Diamond growled. “Ef you wus a’ innercent man, how come you didn’t stan’ yo’ ground’ an’ fight when dat Deo wus fixin’ to pound yo’ face in?”

“I ain’t no fightin’ man,” Skeeter protested. “I’s a bizzness man. But I didn’t say nothin’ an’ I didn’t do nothin’—I wus discriminated agin by dem show folks!”

“Aw, hush!” Pap Curtain exclaimed disgustedly. “I heerd whut you said to dat little gal an’ it wus plum’ insultin’.”

“You better fetch dem same handcuffs back tonight, Skeeter,” Prince Total grinned. “Yo’ bes’ chance to insult dat lady is atter we nail Deo up in dat box.”

“Aw, shut up!” Skeeter snapped.

The men gradually talked themselves out and went away. Skeeter turned to his one friend and sympathizer, Figger Bush.

“Figger,” he said, “I’s gwine git even wid dat pair of crooks or die. Is you willin’ to he’p me?”

“Suttinly,” Figger agreed eagerly. “I think dem show folks done you powerful bad.”

“We begins right now,” Skeeter announced, as he got up and went back to a rear room and came out with Tella’s Spitz dog.

“Come out in front wid me, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he led the dog out of the door and stopped in the middle of the cinder sidewalk. “I want you to hold dis dawg for me.”

“Whut you gwine do?” Figger inquired.

“I’s gwine git back about fawty feet, take a little run, an’ kick dis dang dawg so fur dat de nex’ time he spits it’ll be in Arkansas!” Skeeter announced viciously.

“I’s wid you!” Figger chuckled, as he spraddled his legs and grasped the Pomeranian by his bushy, silky tail. “Kick de goal!”

Skeeter made a little run and almost kicked a hole in the sky. His right foot went up like he had hitched it to a star. For the little dog squatted and Skeeter missed him!

Then the dog got busy.

He snapped at Figger and Figger let go his tail. He sunk his sharp little teeth in the seat of Skeeter’s pantaloons and Skeeter went down the street at full speed, exhausting the treasuries of his throat to vocalize his fright. The dog held on until the seat of Skeeter’s trousers parted company with the rest of the garment and came away. Then the dog, well satisfied, trotted happily down the street, growling ferociously and stopping at intervals to shake the everlasting stuffing out of the piece of cloth which he had captured.

Figger Bush lay flat down upon the ground and whooped with laughter until the town reverberated with the echo of his hilarity like a pack of hounds chasing a fox. When he saw Skeeter returning, he decided it would be safer to go down town and see what time it was. So he went.

But in less than an hour Figger returned in great excitement, bringing with him a little, timid negro woman with a tiny baby upon her arm.

He led her through the saloon to a rear room, motioning mysteriously to Skeeter as he passed. When they were all seated at a table Figger said:

“Now, Mrs. Diddle, you tell dat tale whut you jes’ told me—dis man who wants to listen is Skeeter Butts.”

The woman hesitated a moment, looked down fondly at the tiny bundle on her breast, and began to speak in a trembling, uneasy voice:

“I come up here huntin’ fer a nigger named Deo Diddle. He’s my cote-house husbund. Dis is his little pickaninny chile I’s nursin’. Deo, he gibs shows, but he’s got kinder keerless an’ done fergot all about me, I reckin. So I come to rattle up his remembrunce.”

“Yes’m,” Skeeter exclaimed with unction. “Dat wus de most properest thing you could do. I’s shore glad you foun’ me so prompt, fer I’s jes’ de man to lead you straight on to Deo Diddle.”

“Dat’s fine,” the woman exclaimed, rising eagerly to her feet. “I hopes you’ll take me dar right now.”

“No’m,” Skeeter declared. “It cain’t be did suddent like dat. I don’t know whar dat nigger is now, but he’s gwine gib a show in dis town to-night, an’ I’ll take good keer of you an’ dat baby an’ den lead you to de show. Dat is, ef you’ll do jes’ whut I tells you.”

“I shore will,” the woman said fervently.

“Figger,” Skeeter commanded, “you take sister Diddle over to de Halfacre an’ tell ole sister Ginny Chew to keep her till I come atter her to-night. Den you come right back to dis saloom, an’ you an’ me will fix up our plans fer de evenin’ pufformance.”

The day passed slowly for Skeeter Butts, and when the night came he occupied a seat in the front row in the hall directly in the center of the stage, with Figger Bush sitting beside him.

None of the performance interested Skeeter until Deo Diddle announced that he was now ready to accomplish the “box escape.” He challenged the negroes to provide a pine box in which he would be securely nailed and roped up, first being handcuffed and shackled in any way the negroes chose. Then he proposed to escape, leaving the box and the ropes intact.

When the committee climbed upon the stage, Skeeter did not join them. He handed a tiny vial of liquid to Figger Bush and said:

“Now, Figger, you go up dar an’ do exackly whut I told you!”

Deo Diddle was carefully handcuffed, manacled, chained, and bound by the grinning, laughing negroes; then he was lifted up and lowered carefully into the box.

Figger Bush reached for a hammer, and Tella Tandy stood by with a cigar box full of long wire nails, handing them to Figger as he nailed Deo in the box. Then Tella produced a long rope, and the husky negroes bound that box as a trunk is wrapped for a journey. When all were satisfied they stepped back, but Figger returned for a moment and made another careful examination of the box and the ropes.

Finally the curtains were drawn around the little booth and the crowd waited breathlessly.

Skeeter Butts arose and hastily departed from the hall.

Two things had happened to Deo Diddle which were sure to cause him trouble, and Deo found it out instantly.

First, Figger Bush had nailed Deo’s coat-tail to the top of the box. And second, when Figger went back to examine the box a second time he had emptied a small bottle of formaldehyde into one of the air-holes!

If there is one chemical fluid with which the inhabitants of Louisiana, white and black, are familiar, it is that colorless, volatile liquid, chemically intermediate between methyl alcohol and formic acid, called formaldehyde. It has an odor which suggests all the dead and decaying things of earth, animal and vegetable, all the putrefaction and corruption imaginable. When a man gets a whiff of it for the first time, he kneels down right there and prays to die—he doesn’t want to live another second with that stench in his nostrils. It is the supreme germicide and disinfectant of every yellow-fever epidemic, which accounts for Louisiana’s close and intimate acquaintance with it. Any self-respecting yellow-fever germ will instantly tuck his tail and scoot when he gets a good smell of that gosh-awful disinfectant.

But formaldehyde was a preparation with which Deo Diddle was not acquainted.

Figger Bush, listening intently, heard sounds which resembled those made by a dog having a fit in a cigar box and knocking his feet against the box on all sides. Then Figger heard a loud panting like a worn-out engine pulling a grade with a log-train. After that, a moan, which deepened into a hoarse cry; then Deo Diddle lost hold of himself completely and began a hideous sort of sharp yelping like a dog.

“Hel-lup! Hel-lup! Fer Gawd’s sake——” he screamed.

But long before this Tella Tandy had torn the curtains aside and was fighting the box with her hands, trying to let in the air.

Skeeter Butts, standing by the door at the side entrance with Mrs. Deo Diddle and the baby, heard the excitement and the screaming, and grinned with delight.

“Come on, sister Diddle,” Skeeter exclaimed exultantly. “I’ll show you yo’ kind, good husbunt now. Us is got him in a box!”

He led her through the side entrance to the stage just as Vinegar Atts struck the pine box a heavy blow with the ax, cut the ropes, knocked off the top, and lifted the half-unconscious, and wholly terrified Handcuff King out of the box, his coat-tail nailed securely, his hands and ankles still manacled, and the bottom of the box containing dozens of keys which Deo had dropped in his eagerness and haste to escape!

In the meantime, the entire audience had taken its departure. Even Vinegar Atts left after he released the formaldehyde with the magician. There was no attraction on the stage which could enable them to endure that dreadful odor. Figger Bush lingered around the front door, sticking his head out at intervals to get a breath of pure air.

“Dat’s him!” Skeeter exclaimed dramatically, as he pointed to the drooping form of Deo Diddle, who was rapidly reviving, although he still hung to the shattered box by his coat-tail. “Dat’s de villyum whut is done run off from his wife an’ chile an’ tuck up wid anodder woman!”

“Who—him!” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed, pointing to the performer. “Huh—dat ain’t my husbant—his name is Jim Tom Wyatt!”

Then she turned and faced the frightened Tella Tandy.

“Hello, Tella!” she exclaimed. “Whar is Deo?”

“He got drunk in Kerlerac an’ fit a white man to a shirt-tail finish an’ de jedge put him in jail fer fawty days,” Tella explained. “Me an’ Jim Tom is tryin’ to carry on de show till Deo gits out, an’, of co’se, Jim Tom is usin’ Deo’s name.”

“Dar now, Skeeter Butts!” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed. “Whut you lie to me fer?”

“Did dat little yeller debbil hab anything to do wid dis?” Tella asked, pointing at Skeeter’s face.

“Of co’se he did!” Mrs. Diddle exclaimed. “He done it all!”

Tella Tandy promptly wrenched off a piece of the shattered box about two feet long and three inches wide, and gave Skeeter a resounding slap across the jaw.

Skeeter reeled backward, stumbled down the steps, and fled out into the street.

Figger watched the people on the stage for a minute, then hastened down the street after Skeeter. He found his friend sitting on a curb-stone nursing a bloody face.

“Dey done me up, Figger,” Skeeter mourned. “I never seed de beat of show-folks fer fust-rate brains. Even dat Spit dawg is smarter dan me!”

“Whut is us gwine do nex’, Skeeter?” Bush asked sympathetically.

“I’s gwine to de cote-house an’ hab dat Tella Tandy arrested fer assault an’ battery!” Skeeter exclaimed revengefully.

Figger sighed pitifully.

“’Twon’t do you no good, Skeeter,” Figger informed him. “You can’t git her fer nothin’ but assault.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked.

“Atter she hit you dat whale across de face,” Figger explained, “I saw her take de ax an’ chop dat battery all to little pieces!”