I

THE CLOUD ON THE HORIZON

“Skeeter, kin you rickoleck in your mind about a nigger man who called hisse’f Wash Jones?”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter answered. “He snuck in here about a year ago an’ tried to refawm Tickfall cullud sawciety. Us made him Fust Grand Organizer of de Nights of Darkness Lodge fer de whole worl’ an’ sont him out of town on his fust gran’ organize. Ain’t seed him since dat time.”

“He’s done snuck in agin,” Figger informed him. “He’s all here—de same flossy vest an’ de same big watch-chain ’thout no watch to it, an’ de same mouthful of chawin’ terbacker. But his mouth is done changed.”

“Whut done happened to his mouth?”

“He’s growed two long mustaches whut comes down de sides of his nose plum’ below his chin. He looks like a nigger whut had swallowed two cat-squirrels an’ lef’ deir tails hangin’ out!”

“Whut you reckin he done dat fer?” Skeeter asked.

“Done disguised hisse’f.”

“He ain’t refawmin’ nothin’, is he?” Skeeter asked uneasily.

“Naw, suh. He’s organizin’. He done throwed up his Nights of Darkness Lodge job an’ is cornductin’ health resorts fer cullud pussons.”

“Dar ain’t no sick niggers in Tickfall,” Skeeter said with relief. “He’s done busted in bizziness an’ don’t know it.”

“Dar ain’t no real sick niggers,” Figger agreed. “But plenty of us feels jes’ tol’able an’ b’lieves dat we needs a rest.”

“Restin’ time an’ Sunday comes nachel wid niggers,” Skeeter grinned. “You ain’t sweeped out dis saloon fer about six mont’s.”

“Cain’t sweep her out now, Skeeter,” Figger replied hastily. “Fer a fack, I done come to ax you fer a lay-off fer about two weeks. I needs a change.”

“Wharabouts you gwine change to?” Skeeter asked grouchily.

“Out to de ole tabernacle an’ de prize-fight, picnic, baseball-groun’s, whar Brudder Wash is organizin’ his health resort.”

“How come I ain’t heerd tell ’bout dat?” Skeeter asked.

“He’s been keepin’ it sly because he wus skeart somebody else would think it up an’ beat him to it,” Figger explained. “He done leased de ole camp-groun’s complete, fixed up all de little shacks whar niggers kin stay, hired Shin Bone to run de resteraw, made a dancin’-floor in de ole tabernacle, rented a brass band, an’ is gittin’ ready to rake in de dollars.”

“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed in dismay. “I been livin’ in dis town all my days an’ I never thunk of dat gorgeous idear in my whole life.”

“It shore is a dandy notion,” Figger said with admiration. “Dar’s fo’ springs of water, a great big lake to fish an’ swim in, plenty woods an’ play-groun’s.”

“Gosh! Jes’ think of de money dat’s gwine miss my pants’ pocket,” Skeeter sighed.

“Wash specifies dat dar is a Cooney Island in New Yawk an’ he’s gwine hab a Coon Island in Tickfall.”

“Dat shore is put somepin over on me,” Skeeter mourned.

“Ef you ain’t got no real good objections, I goes out dar to-night an’ stays a week,” Figger remarked.

“I don’t like de notion of keepin’ dis saloon while you gallivants off to a nigger frolic,” Skeeter protested.

“But I gotter go,” Figger assured him.

“Nobody ain’t gotter go no place onless he wants to, excusin’ jail,” Skeeter grumbled.

Figger Bush ended the argument by rising from the table, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and retiring to a little room in the rear of the bar to dress. Ten minutes later he came out with a new suit of clothes, a sunburst tie, a high collar and most expansive cuffs, and all the other paraphernalia of a dead-game sport out for a vacation.

“I hates to leave you, Skeeter,” Figger remarked apologetically. “I’s sorry you is got a grouch. But ef I don’t show up at de tabernacle my grandpaw won’t like it.”

“How come you is so suddent oneasy about displeasin’ Popsy Spout?” Skeeter wanted to know.

“Dat ole man is got money in de bank. Some day he’s gwine haul off an’ die. When he do, he’ll inherit me his house an’ all his cash spondulix. Atter dat happens, I’ll buy one-half of dis Hen-Scratch saloon.”

“Dat ole gizzard says he’s gwine live till he’s one hundred year ole,” Skeeter reminded him.

“Dat means you got to wait thirty year fer yo’ money.”

“Mebbe he’s done miscalculated ’bout how long he’s gwine hang on de bush,” Figger grinned. “I been pussuadin’ him to take a little swim in de Cooley Lake eve’y atternoon when we gits out dar, an’ you know dar’s allergaters in dat lake whut kin swaller Joner an’ de whale.”

“Ef a allergater swallered Popsy, he’d treat him jes’ like de whale done Joner—he’d git dat nigger off his stomick as soon as he could,” Skeeter growled.

“’Tain’t so, Skeeter,” Figger argued earnestly. “When one of dese here Loozanny allergaters swallers a nigger, he crawls out on a mud-bank an’ goes to sleep an’ fergits all about dat cullud pusson in his midst.”

“Ef I could git my wish, I’d be glad if one dem things would chaw up you an’ Popsy, too,” Skeeter retorted.

Figger sat down and lighted a cigarette, wondering how he could placate Skeeter for leaving him alone with the saloon. He could think of nothing else to say, so he changed the theme a little:

“Whut bothers my mind a little, Skeeter, is de fack dat Popsy ain’t got no real good notion whut kind of doin’s will be at de tabernacle. He remembers how ’twus befo’ de war when de white folks helt religium-meetin’s out dar. He wants me to go an’ attend de religium services so me an’ Scootie will git gooder dan we are.”

Skeeter brightened up and laughed.

“Dat means de joke is on you an’ Scootie, Figger,” he guffawed. “I’d druther hab de seben-year itch wid nothin’ to scratch wid—I’d druther be a drag-log tied to a houn’-dawg—dan listen to dat ole Popsy fussin’ ’bout how good things useter wus an’ how much wusser things is now. Go to it, Figger! You got my permission fer a week’s leave-off.”

“I been tellin’ you I warn’t so awful anxious to go,” Figger reminded him.

“You ain’t ’pressed dat fack on my mind very hard,” Skeeter replied. “I wants you to come in eve’y mawnin’ an’ barkeep. You kin go out an’ enjoy Popsy at night.”

“I’ll be in to-morrer mawnin’ early,” Figger answered, as he left.

But Figger did not appear in the saloon until the next day at noon. Skeeter had spent the time thinking up some especially cutting things to say to his partner, but Figger entered the place like a personified calamity and Skeeter forgot all his unkind words in an intense curiosity to know what had happened.

“I done run up on somepin awful bad, Skeeter,” Figger groaned. “Pap Curtain is fixin’ to start a saloon.”

“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “De Hen-Scratch has been de onliest cullud saloon in Tickfall fer twenty year. Now dis here Pap Curtain is aimin’ to rival us out of bizzness.”

“Dat’s de way de rabbit p’ints his nose,” Figger assured him.

“Whar do he git de money?” Skeeter asked.

“He’s makin’ arrangements to marrify it,” Figger wailed. “Dar’s a great big ole cow of a woman out dar whut owns five hundred dollars. Her paw an’ maw is talkin’ it aroun’ an’ dey’s huntin’ somebody dat’ll marry her fer her money.”

“Is she as bad lookin’ as all dat?”

“Shore is. She looks like a puddin’ dat riz too high an’ spreads out too much. She kinder comes outen her clothes an’ rolls over de edges of a chair an’ de big of her ’pears like it’s boilin’ over all de sides all de time.”

“I ketch on,” Skeeter grinned. “She jes’ out-niggers herse’f by bein’ so fat.”

“Pap’ll take her ef he kin git her,” Figger sighed. “He ain’t pertickler. He wants money to start a saloon.”

“Us’ll bofe close up dis saloon to-night an’ go out an’ take a look on,” Skeeter announced. “Dis town kin do without two nigger saloons. One is a plum’ plenty. Who is dis here nigger woman anyhow?”

“She’s ole Isaiah Gaitskill’s stepchile,” Figger informed him. “She takes atter her maw in fat-hood. She’s a widder woman an’ her deceasted husbunt left her a lot of insurance dollars.”

“Gosh!” Skeeter sighed in desperation. “Pap Curtain an’ a widder woman! Two ag’in’ one—I ain’t got no show. Life ain’t fitten to live no more.”

II

PLEASURE AND PROFIT

In the evening Skeeter Butts followed Figger out to the old tabernacle grounds and was amazed at the transformation of the place.

Wash Jones had moved many of the benches out of the building and had placed them under trees and in the groves. He had made sawdust trails from the tabernacle to the edge of the lake, to the Shin Bone eating-house, and to all other places where a little money could be coaxed from the pocket of the pleasure-seeker.

He had made a dancing-floor in a part of the tabernacle, arranging seats around it for the sightseers. He had erected refreshment-booths in other portions of the building, and also a band-stand, where the sweating, hard-worked black Tickfall brass band was having the most hilarious time of their lives.

Negroes had come in from the plantations for miles around. Horses were tied to all the trees, wagons and buggies were sheltered in the woods, and a great mob of folks moved up and down the sawdust avenues or tramped the woods, shouting, laughing, cutting monkey-shines, and eating popcorn balls, hot dogs, and sandwiches made of fried catfish.

It was a noisy, boisterous, rollicking place which Skeeter entered.

Ordinarily Skeeter would have been the center of the whole thing. But this affair had slipped up on him and had suddenly developed business complications and his mind was too occupied with his troubles to enjoy the fun going on around him.

Soon after entering the grounds he found Pap Curtain. Pap was entertaining himself by paying five cents for three baseballs. He would then try to throw each ball so it would stay in a bucket about twenty feet away. Whenever he placed one to stay, the proprietor of the amusement feature would give Pap a cigar. The cigars sold three for a nickel in Tickfall and as Pap never succeeded in placing more than two balls in the bucket, the proprietor of the place always made a fair profit in the transaction. Pap had his pocket stuffed full of cheap cigars and promptly offered a handful to Skeeter.

“I don’t smoke garbage,” Skeeter said impatiently, waving aside the offer.

“I figger I done acquired enough of dese cabbage-leaves. Less move on an’ git some fun somewhere else.”

A short distance down the sawdust trail they ran into something new. The diminutive darky named Little Bit was standing on a frail platform erected over a hogshead full of water. There was a trigger shaped like a skiff-paddle about fifty feet away, and men were throwing baseballs at this paddle. If someone hit the trigger, the platform, on which Little Bit was standing, fell and ducked the diminutive darky in the hogshead of water. Little Bit was well known in Tickfall and this particular attraction was a riot. Sometimes thirty baseballs would be flying toward that paddle-shaped trigger at one time, and the hapless Little Bit spent more time in the hogshead of water than he did on the platform.

“Lawd, Skeeter!” Pap exclaimed when he had laughed himself nearly to exhaustion. “I’d druther be de owner of dis Coon Island dan de’ pres’dunt of de Europe war. I feels like I’s jes’ nachelly cut out fer a job like dis. I been huntin’ fer somepin I been fitten fer all my life an’ dis am it.”

“I wish you had dis job, Pap,” Skeeter replied. “I stopped by to ax you a question.”

“I’ll answer yes or no, like de gram jury always tells me to do,” Pap grinned.

“Word is done been sont to me dat you is fixin’ to start a saloon. Is dat so?”

“Yep.”

“Whar you gwine git de money at?”

“A fat widder woman’s husbunt is kicked de bucket an’ lef’ her a wad of dough,” Pap chuckled. “I’s gwine marrify de widder, mix dat dough wid my brains an’ start me a place of bizzness.”

“I thought you wus done through wid marrin’ womens,” Skeeter wailed. “You done been kotched fo’ times already.”

“Yas, suh, but in all dem fo’ times I never married no widder. My edgycation is been neglected. Dey wus all young an’ foolish gals. Dis here is a sottled woman—so dang fat dat when she sottles down it takes a block an’ tackle to h’ist her agin.”

“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Whut you marryin’ dat kind of gal fer?”

“Fer five hundred dollars!” Pap said.

Skeeter turned away with a troubled face. Pap looked after him a moment, then purchased three more baseballs to throw at the trigger-paddle.

At the far end of the grounds, Skeeter found Wash Jones.

“Wash,” he said after a little conversation, “I understands dat you is got a prize widder in dis show.”

The big black eyed Skeeter for a moment with suspicion. He took the time to help himself to a big chew of tobacco before he answered, watching Skeeter covertly all the time. At last he said:

“I ain’t heerd tell about dat. But I ain’t supprized none. I got all de attrackshuns on dis Coon Island whut is.”

“Dey tells me dis widder is got a dead husbunt an’ five hundred dollars,” Skeeter continued.

Wash dropped his plug of tobacco and stooped to pick it up. That Skeeter had this information was not a surprise to him; it was a shock.

“Who mought dat widder be?” Wash asked.

“Sister Solly Skaggs,” Skeeter informed him.

“I knows her,” Wash groaned. “Fat—O Lawd! Ef dat gal wuster drap dead, dey’d hab to git a mud-scow outen de river fer a coffin, an’ de only hole in de groun’ big enough to put her in is Marse Tom’s sand pit. Dat five hundred dollars don’t int’rust my mind, naw, suh, not at all, not at all!”

“Don’t waste no time thinkin’ about it,” Skeeter sighed. “Pap Curtain is done spoke fer it—de fat’s in de fire.”

“Which?” Wash Jones exclaimed in a tone that popped like a gun. “Pap Curtain?”

“Pap done pulled de curtain down on de widder,” Skeeter assured him. “Nobody else needn’t look at her charms.”

Wash Jones turned around three times, as if looking for some place to go and practically undecided about what direction to choose.

Skeeter wandered on disconsolately and finally found himself beside the old tabernacle. An aged man approached him. Skeeter looked for a place to escape, but found no avenue of exit and stood his ground. The venerable man was Popsy Spout.

“I don’t ketch on ’bout dis, Skeeter,” he said in the high, shrill complaining voice of senility. “Dis here ain’t de place whut I thought it wus. ’Tain’t de same place whut it uster be befo’ an’ endurin’ of de war. When do de religium exoncises begin?”

“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “Ax Wash Jones.”

“I axed him. Wash said ef de people wanted religium doin’s dey could start ’em deyselfs,” Popsy whined. “Wash said he wus jes’ de servunt of de people fer so much money per each people.”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter laughed.

“I thought dey wus gwine hab preachin’ in dat ole tabernacle to-night,” Pap complained. “Instid of dat, dey’s gwine had a dance fer a prize! Yas, suh—whut do Gawd think of dat? A dance fer a prize?”

“I hopes dat Pap Curtain slips up an’ breaks bofe behime legs,” Skeeter remarked bitterly.

“’Tain’t no use hopin’,” the old man chuckled. “Pap is like me—spry on his legs fer a ole man. But Pap an’ me don’t favor dancin’. We been talkin’ it over. I deespise a nigger dat dances. Ef any of my kin-folks cuts a shuffle on dat flo’ dis night, dey ain’t no kinnery of mine no more.”

“I ’speck I better go gib Figger a warnin’ right now,” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly, glad to find a reason for departure.

“Dat’s right!” Popsy exclaimed, in his high, cracked falsetto. “You warn him good!”

Skeeter wandered down to the shore of the little lake and sat down alone to think out some method of defeating Pap’s designs. After an hour Figger Bush found him by the glow of his cigarette, and came and sat beside him.

“De only way to bust Pap’s plans, Figger, is to marry dat fat Solly Skaggs to somebody else.”

“Who’ll take her?” Figger inquired.

“It’ll hab to be somebody dat ain’t married already,” Skeeter said.

“You’s de only onmarried man I knows, excusin’ Pap,” Figger giggled. “I guess you’ll hab to make de riffle.”

Skeeter considered this a moment in silence. Then he asked:

“Is she so awful fat as people says she is?”

“Ain’t you never seed her?” Figger exclaimed. “Honey, de half ain’t never yit been told! She’s been reg’lar to her meals ever since she wus borned, an’ her meals is been frequent an’ copious, an’ her vittles is agreed wid her too well! Come on, Skeeter, lemme interjuice you to yo’ future wife!”

Figger rose to his feet with eagerness. Skeeter shook his head and sighed.

“I wouldn’t choose any, Figger. I’d druther Pap Curtain would rival me out of bizzness.”

“Mebbe we could wish her onto somebody else,” Figger proposed.

“I been tryin’ to think up some onmarried man,” Skeeter told him, “but I don’t see none in sight.”

They smoked for an hour longer without producing a spark of an idea. At last Skeeter said:

“All I kin do jes’ now, Figger, is to keep Pap away from dat gal ontil I finds a fitten secont husbunt fer her. Dar’s gwine be a prize-dance to-night an’ I nominates you to dance wid Sister Solly Skaggs.”

“Ef she trods on me I’ll be a squashed worm of de dust,” Figger wailed.

“Don’t talk back,” Skeeter replied sharply. “I’ll fix it so you an’ Sister Solly win de prize.”

Mrs. Solly Skaggs was a widow of the sod variety and had enjoyed her matrimonial release for about six months. She had not mourned too much for Solly nor had she loved him much. For he was about as lovable as a sick dog and his departure from the world was a distinct blessing to all the inhabitants thereof.

Old Isaiah Gaitskill, in discussing her chances for matrimony again, assured her that no negro would marry her because she was too fat. But this did not discourage the lady and there was no indication of despair either in her manner or her deportment, for she dressed and acted like a miss of sweet sixteen.

Old Popsy Spout stood on the edge of the throng and watched her elephantine performances on the dancing-floor. Growing weary, he walked over and sat down upon a bench beside Pap Curtain.

“Look at dat fool nigger gal, Pap,” he whined. “I been livin’ off and on nigh onto one hundred year an’ I done seen plenty sights, but dat fat fool flounderin’ on dat floor is de wust sight till yit.”

“Don’t preach so loud, Popsy,” Pap said with a warning hiss. “You mought hurt dat cullud lady’s feelin’s.”

“I ain’t preachin’,” Popsy snapped. “I’s tellin’ facks. Excusin’ dat, she ain’t got no feelin’s. Her feelin’s is padded two-foot deep in fat. I bet she’s got some age on her, too.”

“Not too much age fer a widder,” Pap said. “An’ she’s wuth consid’able money since her fust husbunt up an’ died on her. Five hundred dollars will keep dat woman fat fer a long time.”

“Why don’t you git in de race, Pap?” Popsy suggested. “You ain’t got no wife now.”

“Dat’s my bizzness right now,” Pap grinned. “I needs a little cash money to start a saloon.”

“You ain’t figgerin’ to buy out Figger an’ Skeeter in de Hen-Scratch, is you?” Popsy asked.

“Naw, suh, I’s fixin’ to run ’em out,” Pap said confidently, as he arose and walked away.

Popsy arose, too, pushed his way through the crowd and went in search of Figger Bush. He found Figger and his wife and Skeeter Butts in the Shin Bone eating-house. He hastened to their table, rested his rusty stove-pipe hat upon the top of the table and sat down.

“How come you an’ Skeeter is bofe lef’ yo’ bizzness to come out here, Figger?” he inquired.

“Dar ain’t no bizzness wid dis frolic gwine on,” Figger said.

“You better git to wuckin’ up some new bizzness,” the old man remarked. “Pap Curtain is jes’ tole me he wus gwine run you-alls out.”

“We been talkin’ about dat,” Skeeter broke in.

“Pap’s tryin’ to pick a widder an’ us is wonderin’ how we kin bump him off de job.”

“I’s gittin’ to be a awful ole fool,” Popsy sighed. “I jes’ dis minute suggested to Pap dat he ought to marry dat widder an’ git her out of her misery an’ her mournin’.”

“Whut you mean by doin’ dat, Popsy?” Skeeter snapped. “You done ruint us. I’s thinkin’ about firin’ Figger now because our bizzness is got so bum wid prohibition an’ all dem yuther troubles.”

“Mebbe I could go back an’ tell Pap he is makin’ a miscue at his age,” Popsy proposed.

“You better go do somepin,” Skeeter snapped. “You go potterin’ aroun’ an’ spile my trade an’ I’ll kick Figger out an’ you’ll hab dis here wuthless nigger to suppote.”

“Not ef I kin he’p it,” Popsy said positively. “I’ll shore git busy an’ c’reck dat mistake. I needs my dollars fer my own use. I’s fixin’ to spend ’em in my ole age, when I gits ole.”

At this moment Wash Jones stepped to the middle of the floor, pulled proudly at one of his squirrel-tail mustaches, knocked upon a dining-table with the nicked edge of a thick, granite saucer, and commanded silence.

“I announces dar will be a prize-dance at de tabernacle to-night. It will be de last dance of de evenin’. Five cents lets you into de tabernacle to perceive de dancers, ten cents will gib you de right to dance. At de end of de last dance a prize will be gib away to de lucky winner. De show begins at ten o’clock.”

“I’s reckin I’ll hab to trod ’em a few,” Skeeter sighed. “Got to do somepin to ease up my mind.”

“I don’t allow Scootie an’ Figger to dance,” Popsy snapped. “’Tain’t decent an’ religium to cut monkey-shines like dat at a camp-meetin’. Married folks oughter sottle down an’ behave.”

“I agree wid you,” Skeeter grinned, winking at Figger Bush. “Bofe of ’em is gittin’ too ole an’ stiff to dance an’ Figger never wus no account dancer nohow. As fer Scootie, she dances like one dese here Teddy bears.”

“’Tain’t so,” Scootie snapped. “You gimme a couple dances wid you to-night an’ I’ll show you—ouch!”

Figger kicked Scootie under the table and pounded on the top of the table with his fist to drown her voice, looking fearfully the while at Popsy Spout to see if he was listening to her remarks.

“Shut up!” he hissed. “Whut you want to be such a splatter-jaw fer? Watch whut you’s sayin’!”

Scootie cast a frightened look at Popsy, but the old man showed by his next question that he had not noticed her break.

“Whut kind prizes does dey gib fer de dance, Skeeter?”

“Nobody ain’t know but Wash Jones,” Skeeter informed him. “Dis is de fust night of de show an’ no prizes ain’t git bestowed yit.”

“’Twon’t be nothin’ but a pack of chawgum fer de lady an’ a box of cigareets fer de man,” Figger said disgustedly. “Wash Jones ain’t gwine gib nothin’ away. I think I’ll cut out de dance an’ go to bed.”

“Me, too,” Popsy whined. “I got a little bed out here in one of dese shacks ef I could find it.”

“It’s down by de lake, Popsy,” Figger told him, glad that Popsy was leaving them. “You won’t hab no trouble gittin’ dar.”

As soon as Popsy had departed, Scootie turned to Figger and snapped:

“You mighty nigh kicked my leg off an’ ole Popsy didn’t pay no mind to whut I wus sayin’ at all.”

“Stop talkin’ ’bout dancin’ whar Popsy is,” Figger growled. “Dat ole man will git mad an’ gib all his money to furin missionaries when he dies.”

“You’s makin’ yo’se’f tired fer nothin’, Figger,” Skeeter giggled. “Popsy will find out about yo’ dancin’ powerful soon.”

“How soon?” Figger asked.

“As soon as you an’ Sister Skaggs wins dem prizes to-night.”

“I ain’t gwine win no prize. Dar cain’t be no prize-dancin’ wid dat fat ole cow. De judges would laugh at us.”

“I’ll fix de judges,” Skeeter laughed. “Leave it wid me an’ Wash Jones.”

“You ain’t fixin’ to buy up de judges, is you?” Figger asked.

“Naw. I’s fixin’ to buy Wash Jones. ’Twon’t cost much. Wash is a cheap nigger.”

IV

THE JOYOUS TROUBLE-MAKERS

Wash Jones was standing behind the tabernacle, mopping the copious perspiration that streamed from his baboon face.

“I finds dis here bizzness a heap more wuck dan I bargained fer,” he complained to Skeeter Butts. “When I fust started out I thought dat niggers would jes’ entertain deyselfs an’ not expeck nothin’ from me but de pleasure of my comp’ny. But I finds dat dey expecks me to be on de job of waitin’ on ’em all de time.”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter snickered. “Ef I charged admissions to my saloon I wouldn’t allow no niggers to wait on demselfs. I’d hab to serve ’em.”

“I done collected all de admission-fares I expecks to git,” Wash sighed, fanning himself with his big hat. “As fer as I’m concerned, dis here show kin end right now.”

“Ef you end her up now de people will kick an’ want deir money back,” Skeeter reminded him. “You done collected up fer a week in eegsvance.”

“I’d be powerful glad to turn de job over to some yuther feller fer whut he kin make out of it, ef I had a good excuse fer hittin’ de grit out of here,” Wash suggested.

“I ain’t candidatin’ fer de place,” Skeeter chuckled. “But I kin show you how you kin make a few more easy dollars ef you ain’t keer too much how you got ’em.”

“Spill de beans right here, Skeeter,” Wash answered earnestly. “Dat sounds good to me.”

“My trouble am dis,” Skeeter began. “You is givin’ a prize-dance to-night an’ I wants to pick de winner.”

“I’ll app’int you one of de judges fer one dollar,” Wash said promptly.

“Dat won’t he’p none,” Skeeter said. “Dat’ll jes’ git one vote.”

“I’ll be a judge myse’f an’ dat’ll gib you two votes—dat is, ef you is willin’ to bestow anodder dollar fer my vote.”

“Who will de yuther judge be?”

“Ef you gib me anodder dollar I’ll let you name him yo’se’f,” Wash replied without hesitation. “Pick yo’ own nigger an’ trade wid him pussonly fer his pussonal vote.”

“Here’s three dollars, Wash,” Skeeter chuckled as he rattled the money in his hand. “You shore is a easy nigger to trade wid.”

“Jes’ ile my machinery aplenty an’ I’ll run along smooth,” Wash grinned as he pocketed the money. “Who is de couple you wants to win dis prize-dance?”

“Figger Bush an’ Sister Solly Skaggs.”

“Gosh!” Wash Jones exploded as he thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out the three dollars and handed them back to Skeeter. “I loves money but I ain’t troublin’ trouble.”

“Whut ails dem plans?” Skeeter asked, thrusting back the hand which offered him the money.

“In de fust place, Sister Solly Skaggs can’t win a prize in no kind of dance whutsoever. She cain’t dance no more dan a Mefdis meetin’-house. In de secont place it’s a little too raw fer you to be de judge of a dance an’ gib de prize to yo’ own pardner in de saloon bizzness.”

“I sees de light,” Skeeter said in a surprised tone. “I suttinly did mighty nigh slip up on dat plan. Wonder whut we kin do to he’p you earn dat money an’ still act honest?”

“Dat question is ’most too heavy fer my mind,” Wash said indifferently. “I’ll keep dis three dollars an’ let you think up yo’ own plan. Ef it don’t wuck, I’ll gib you yo’ money back.”

“Whut kind of prizes is you gwine gib, Wash?” Skeeter asked.

“Whutever kind of prizes you wants to buy,” Wash grinned. “I leaves it wid you to pick ’em an’ pay fer ’em.”

“I thought you had ’em already selected!” Skeeter exclaimed.

“Naw, suh, I figgered it out dat some nigger would want hisse’f an’ his gal to win dem prizes so I wus waitin’ fer him to bestow a little money on me an’ furnish de prizes outen his own cash money.”

“You shore is a skillful nigger, Wash,” Skeeter said admiringly. “I oughter run wid you a little while an’ git some new notions in my head. You knows how to rob ’em widout gittin’ in jail.”

“You better git some notions in yo’ head ’bout dem prizes,” Wash warned him. “Dat dance is startin’ off pretty soon.”

“’Tain’t no trouble to seleck de prizes,” Skeeter laughed. “I’ll git Sister Skaggs a little round lookin’-glass ’bout big enough fer her to see her nose in; an I’ll git Figger a nickel-plated cigareet holder.”

“Cigareet holders comes pretty high, don’t dey?”

“Yes, suh, but I don’t mind payin’ fer one. I been needin’ one dem things fer a long time an I’ll make Figger gib it back to me.”

“Dat shows I ain’t de only nigger wid notions,” Wash laughed. “Dat’s a real good trick. Is you got it mapped out how you will git de prize to dem two dancers?”

“Dat ain’t no trouble.”

“I hopes it won’t make no trouble,” Wash remarked.

“Not at all!” Skeeter assured him. “You will be de onliest judge. Write de names of each couple on a card an’ put all de cards in a bag. When de times comes to gib de prizes, shake de bag up, put in yo’ hand an’ fotch out de card wid de names of de winners.”

“How’ll I git holt of de card wid Figger’s name on it when it’s shuck up in a bag?” Wash wanted to know.

“Take a pin an’ pin Figger’s card to de bottom of de bag on de inside,” Skeeter explained. “All you got to do atter dat is to reach down an’ onpin dat card an’ fotch it out.”

Wash looked at Skeeter with the utmost admiration.

“Brudder Butts,” he said earnestly, “some day I’ll take a notion to rob a rattlesnake of de skin under its chin. When I git ready to do it I’ll plan a little wid you an’ learn how to do it.”

“Dat wus easy,” Skeeter grinned. “I kin always think up plenty good plans fer de yuther feller. I falls down when I begins to study fer myse’f.”

“How come you wants dese two to win so bad?” Wash asked.

“I’s tryin’ to break Pap Curtain’s nose!” Skeeter exclaimed. “He’s atter de fat widder an’ her easy money. He aims to start a saloon, an’ I’s de leader of de highest alcoholic circles in dis town an’ don’t need no competition.”

“Nachelly you is ag’in’ dat,” Wash said promptly. “Mebbe ef you could loant me twenty dollars I could think up some good plan to he’p you out.”

Skeeter produced two ten-dollar bills.

“Jes’ keep Pap away from Sister Skaggs, Wash,” Skeeter said earnestly. “Dat earns dis money. I think Pap is got a sure thing. He’s de only onmarried nigger in Tickfall, an’ de widder will take anybody she kin git. She ain’t choosy or she wouldn’t never choose Pap.”

“I makes you one promise fer dis twenty, Skeeter,” Wash said. “Pap won’t start no saloon in Tickfall. As fer marryin’ de widder, I cain’t promise dat he won’t. Not even Gawd knows whut kind of man a widder is gwine to marry.”

V

AN UNFORESEEN COMPETITOR

The one negro in Tickfall who never dressed up was Pap Curtain. He was the well-digger and the grave-digger of that community, and he carried the marks of his trade upon him, clay on his clothes, on his hands, on his hat. But to-night for the first time in the memory of men, Pap was arrayed in gorgeous garments. He attracted much attention.

“Whoo-pee, Pap!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “I cain’t make up my mind whether you is a young nigger beginnin’ to show yo’ age, or a ole nigger tryin’ to look lesser dan yo’ real age.”

“I done heerd remarks like dat a plum’ plenty, Revun,” Pap snarled. “I admits dat I’s gwine on seventy odd year ole.”

“I didn’t say you wusn’t, brudder,” Vinegar said propitiatingly. “But whut do an ole nigger like you dress up like you fer? Dar ain’t no fun’ral to go to an’ us ain’t habin’ no lodge meetin’ to-night.”

“Dey’s yuther reasons fer dressin’ up,” Pap said with a grin.

Vinegar slapped his hand to his head and a sudden remembrance transformed his countenance.

“I like to fergot dat weddin’ complete! I onderstan’ now—you’s ragged out fer de weddin’. I muss be gittin’ ole an’ fergitful. An’ I got some questions to ax dat widder befo’ she steps off.”

Vinegar hurried away and Pap stood grinning after him. When the colored clergyman was lost to sight in the crowd, Pap turned away, mumbling to himself:

“Dat Vinegar Atts never did hab no sense. Now he raves an’ rambles when he talks wid his mouth. De Shoofly needs a new up-to-date preacher.”

Pap walked over to the tabernacle, sought out Mrs. Solly Skaggs, and bowing with exaggerated courtesy, he asked:

“Kin I dance dis here prize-dance wid you, Sister Solly?”

A shrill cackle of laughter rattled in Pap’s ear and he turned to look into the sardonic face of Skeeter Butts.

“I done saved you, Sister Solly,” Skeeter snickered.

“You done got left, Pap,” Solly remarked. “I’s dancin’ fer de prize wid Figger Bush.”

“You’s gwine to win de prize, too, Solly,” Skeeter said in a low tone. “Dat is, ef you dances wid Figger. You cain’t git a showin’ dancin’ wid Pap. Ole age an’ fatness makes a powerful poor combine in a dance.”

“We ain’t axin’ you fer no remarks,” Pap snarled, turning to Skeeter.

“Beg parding fer buttin’ in, Pap,” Skeeter laughed. “I wus jes’ surprised dat you wus takin’ up dancin’ at yo’ age.”

Skeeter turned away, and as Pap had failed to secure a partner, there was nothing for him to do but retire from the floor, lamenting the fact that he had paid a dime for the privilege of dancing and lost his money. He sat down on a bench on the edge of the throng and gave himself up to deep meditation.

“I got lef’ dat time,” he grumbled to himself. “But dis am jes’ de fust day of de frolic. I got plenty time yit. Fur as I know, I’s de only man aimin’ fer her, an’ de only onmarried man in de town.”

He lighted a pipe and sat smoking for five minutes. Then a new idea came:

“Wash Jones is de high boss of dis show, an’ I reckin Wash knows de widder. I oughter git Wash to he’p me hook her.”

At this point Popsy Spout wandered up to the bench and addressed Pap.

“I done loss my way in dese groun’s Pap,” he complained. “Dar’s so many wagins an’ buggies an’ niggers dat I can’t find de cabin whar I sleeps at.”

“You ain’t aimin’ to sleep now, is you?” Pap asked.

“I goes to bed reg’lar ’bout dis time.”

“Eve’ybody is stayin’ up to see de dance,” Pap said.

“I’s ag’in dancin’,” Popsy declared, with disgust in his tones. “Me an’ none of my kinnery follers atter de sinful dance. I done teached ’em better.”

“Teached who better?” Pap asked quickly, planning for revenge.

“Figger an’ Scootie,” Popsy declared. “Bofe of dem young folks abstains from de dance.”

“Who say dey does?”

“I says,” Popsy replied impatiently.

“Whut would you do ef you wuster see Figger dancin’ to-night, Popsy?” Pap asked in wheedling tones.

“I’d bust his head wid my stick an’ I wouldn’t let him inherit none of my dollars, an’ I’d drive him an’ his nigger wife outen my cabin,” the old man announced irately.

“I’s kinder skeart Figger is a deceitful nigger, Popsy,” Pap said in a bitter voice. “I happens to know dat he is gwine dance in de prize-dance to-night.”

“’Tain’t so,” Popsy snapped. “I done tole Figger to go to bed.”

The music started in the pavilion and Pap rose to his feet.

“Come wid me, Popsy,” Pap said. “I’ll show you dat Figger ain’t as good as you thinks he is.”

On the edge of the crowd Popsy shaded his age-dimmed eyes with the palm of his hand and watched the swaying forms until he recognized Figger Bush. Figger’s dancing partner was the easiest thing to see on the floor, but Figger was completely eclipsed at intervals in the convolutions of the dance.

If Mrs. Solly Skagg had been white, she would long ago have been signed up by some enterprising showman and her monstrosities exhibited to every community in the country. But being of color, she furnished a free show to all the colored people in her vicinity, and to-night Figger Bush looked like a pickaninny swinging on to a balloon and trying to drag it to the ground. Mrs. Skaggs was active, not graceful, and most of the time Figger’s feet were in the air and he was swinging onto the ample form of his partner with both hands.

The crowd saw the fun and went into hysterics. Popsy Spout saw the exhibition and became hysterical also, but for other reasons. He walked forward and pounded the floor with his patriarchal staff and screeched Figger’s name, demanding that he desist at once and go to bed. But four big horns in the Tickfall brass band were blaring as the performers tried in vain to blow out their brains through the mouthpieces, and Popsy’s whining voice was like the note of a cricket in a storm.

The old man finally snorted his disgust, expressing his sentiments for the amusement of the few around him who could hear, and tried to push his way out of the crowd. But they were packed densely around him, and in spite of his wishes, Popsy had to stay and see the rewarding of the prizes.

Wash Jones stepped out and made the announcement:

“Dis am de fust night of de prize dancin’ an’ so I’s bestowin’ de prize on whut I calls de lucky-name dancers. I done wrote de name of eve’y couple on a card an’ put de names in dis sack. I now proceeds to shake ’em up an’ will put my han’ in dis sack an’ draw out one card. Ever who’s name is writ on de card is de winner of dis dance, no matter ef dey kin dance or not. To-morrer night we will hab reg’lar app’inted judges an’ nobody cain’t win dat cain’t dance.”

He thrust his hand into the bag, stirred the cards around for a moment, created suspense by fumbling with the bag and making jocose remarks to entertain the crowd. At last he found the card pinned to the bottom of the bag, took out the pin, and brought forth the names of the winners.

“Figger Bush an’ Mrs. Solly Skaggs!”

There was a moment of intense silence which made Wash Jones wince with fear. Then a howl of derisive laughter swept over the crowd and every dancing couple was completely satisfied. All thought that mere chance had determined the selection, and all knew that Solly and Figger were the worst dancers in the world.

The lucky couple advanced and received the prizes, bowed to the derisive crowd and started to retire. Then Popsy Spout advanced to the center of the dancing-floor, waving his big staff like a baseball bat, his high, shrill, whining voice cutting the silence like a knife.

“Figger Bush, you is a wuthless, lyin’, deceitful cuss! I done advised you to abandon dancin’ an’ you promised to do it. I tole you to go home an’ go to bed, an’ now you done put on yo’ clothes an’ snuck outen yo’ cabin an’ come down here to dis sinful dance. You git on home an’ when I comes I’s gwine hide you wid dis stick!”

“Don’t make no scenery, Popsy,” Figger pleaded. “I didn’t really intend to dance but dis here woman betrayed me into treadin’ a tune or two wid her an’ I couldn’t resist.”

“You means dat you wus tempted by dis here woman?” Popsy whined.

“Dat’s whut,” Figger replied solemnly.

“You go home an’ repent an’ refawm!” Popsy shrieked. “Do it befo’ de good Lawd draps a brickbat on yo’ head outen de sky! Git!”

Figger pocketed his nickel-plated cigarette holder and moved away.

Popsy turned and surveyed the ample proportions of Mrs. Solly Skaggs.

“You needs a good steady husbunt to keep you back from yo’ evil ways, sister,” he announced. “You didn’t hab no call to lead my little Figger Bush into evil ways.”

“I won’t do it no more, Popsy,” Mrs. Skaggs said easily.

Old Popsy Spout growled like a senile bear and moved away. On the edge of the platform Pap was waiting for him, feeling well satisfied with himself and the revenge he had achieved.

“Pap, Figger Bush is done cut hisse’f off from me ferever,” the old man snapped. “I’s gwine drive him an’ his wife outen my house an’ home.”

“You’ll git pretty lonesome, won’t you, Popsy?” Pap asked idly.

“Naw!” the old man snapped. “I’s gwine marry agin right away.”

“Who you done picked fer de gigglin’ bride, Popsy?” Pap asked with utter indifference.

“I done picked de widder Solly Skaggs,” Popsy proclaimed. “I’s gittin ole an’ blind an’ she’s big enough fer me to see as fur as my eyesight goes. By dis time nex’ year, she’ll be too fat to dance an’ us’ll bofe be of de same mind on dat. She needs some sottled husbunt to lead her outen de error of her ways. Excusin’ dat, she’s collected her insurance money an’ I ain’t got no real good objections to a little more dough. I needs it fer my ole age.”

He moved away leaving Pap Curtain gasping for breath, stupefied by utter amazement.

VI

“A CUSSIN’ CASE”

Half an hour later Skeeter and Figger met in the Hen-Scratch saloon to discuss the events of the evening.

“We shore knocked de skin offen Pap Curtain’s nose to-night, Figger,” Butts exulted. “Dat’s de way so keep on. We’ll show dat ole man dat he cain’t beat us at dis game.”

“Never no more fer me, Skeeter,” Figger said earnestly. “I got to repent an’ refawm an’ dodge brickbats. Atter you dances one time wid a ole sook-cow like Solly, ’tain’t no trouble to repent an’ refawm. But I’s shore much ableeged fer dis cigareet holder. I been needin’ one fer a long time.”

“You gimme dat cigareet holder back,” Skeeter snapped. “Us kin use it fer all de yuther prizes, an’ I proposes to git my money back by smokin’ it myself.”

“I knowed you warn’t gwine be lib’ral wid yo’ gifts,” Figger said, as he reluctantly produced the holder and passed it to Skeeter. “I oughter lost dat prize befo’ I showed up here.”

“You kin git de good outen it by watchin’ me smoke it,” Skeeter snickered. “An’ ef we bust Pap’s plans about startin’ a saloon, mebbe I’ll let you smoke it a few times to keep yo’ feelin’s from gittin’ hurt.”

At that moment the door of the saloon opened and old Isaiah Gaitskill came across the room to where the two men sat at a table. Isaiah was one of the landmarks of Tickfall, withered and wrinkled and dry like the hull of a walnut, his gray hair fitting his head like a rubber cap, over eighty years of age, but as hard and active as a soldier.

“Ole fellers like you oughter be in bed, Isaiah,” Skeeter announced as he waved the visitor to a chair.

“Fellers nearly as ole as me is not only stayin’ up late but dey is figgerin’ ’bout gittin’ married,” Isaiah replied with a grin.

“Pap Curtain ain’t nigh as old as you,” Figger retorted.

“’Tain’t Pap I’s alludin’ to,” Isaiah answered. “It’s brudder Popsy Spout whut’s studyin’ mattermony.”

Many things had happened to those two young men in their variegated and adventurous careers, but nothing had ever happened to produce such a shock as Isaiah’s announcement. Figger uttered a startled exclamation, started to rise from his seat, then sank back with his chin in his collar and collapsed like a punctured tire. Skeeter Butts pawed the air in front of his face with both hands as if fighting off invisible insects; he made inarticulate noises in his throat, shut his teeth down so hard on his celluloid nickel-plated cigarette holder that he split it for two inches, and then exclaimed despairingly:

“Oh, whoosh!”

The sound was like the feeble exhaust of an automobile that is utterly worn out and broken down and never intends to be serviceable again.

“I come aroun’ to ax you-alls is Popsy still got dat thousan’ dollars in Marse Tom Gaitskill’s bank,” Isaiah proceeded, taking no notice of the terrible effect of his announcement.

“Whoosh!” Skeeter sighed again.

“I got a notion dat Popsy’s suttinly still got it,” Isaiah continued. “Dat ole monkey don’t spen’ no money—he saves it.”

“Whoosh!” Skeeter muttered.

There was a long silence, the men looking at each other without a word. After a while Isaiah began to drum on the table with his horny fingernails, and the sound was as annoying and as startling in the stillness as the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker trying to drill a hole through a tin roof. Slowly Figger recovered his power of speech. He glared at Skeeter uttering one intelligible sentence:

“You is to blame fer dis!”

And then he began to “cuss.” It was an edifying exhibition to one interested in the use of forcible words, interested in the efficiency attained through long practice and experience, and interested in knowing how copious is the English language in terms of profanity, blasphemy, and execration.

Isaiah listened, casting a glance of admiration toward Figger now and then as he heard some especially pregnant phrases of vituperation, then he said:

“Save a few cuss-words fer future use, Figger. You’ll need ’em.”

“Keep on, Figger,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Dis here is a cussin’ case an’ you ain’t done de case justice even yit.”

“I ain’t gwine stay here an’ listen,” Isaiah snapped. “I jes’ stopped by to ax about Popsy’s finances. Ef he’s still got de dough he had when he arrived up at dis town, he’s got twicet as much as de gal he’s studin’ to marry an’ dat’ll make a good match.”

“Hol’ on, Isaiah,” Figger wailed. “Who did you say Popsy wus aimin’ to marry?”

“I ain’t specified,” Isaiah grinned, reaching for his hat and preparing to go. “But I don’t mind tellin’—it’s my stepchile by my fourth wife’s fust marriage, Mrs. Solly Skaggs!”

The exclamation which Figger uttered at this information indicated that he had exhausted all the treasuries of speech: language could go no further.

“I tole you to save some cuss-words,” Isaiah grinned.

Skeeter groaned, fanning himself with his hat.

“Dar won’t be enough room in Popsy’s little cabin fer Figger an’ his wife an’ Popsy an’ his wife,” he meditated aloud. “Solly is a cabin-full all by herse’f.”

“Popsy is shore gittin’ plenty fer his money,” Isaiah chuckled. “I’s glad she’s ended up dat way. Dat fat gal kin eat as much as fo’teen chillun an’ a cow an’ a calf. I don’t hanker to suppote her.”

“How come Popsy made up his mind to ack a fool so suddent?” Skeeter wailed.

“He seen Figger dancin’ wid Solly an’ he don’t approve of dat exoncise. He’s marryin’ Solly to refawm her an’ to git him a new housekeeper because he’s gwine chase Figger an’ Scootie outen his cabin fer deceivin’ him.”

Sometimes when you step on the shell of a dead turtle it makes a ridiculous squeak. Figger made a noise like that.

“Bad luck, Figger,” Skeeter said sympathetically, as he took the broken nickel-plated cigarette holder from his mouth and handed it to Figger. “I gives you dis little present to show my sad feelin’s todes you.”

Figger’s mental perturbation was such that he stuck it in his mouth, struck a match and tried to light it without placing a cigarette on the end.

“Dis is awful,” he sighed.

“I reckin Popsy is expeckin’ me back about now,” Isaiah remarked as he arose. “As Solly’s nachel gardeen, he axed me to speak up to Solly an’ find out ef she wus willin’. But fust I come to see how Popsy wus fixed financial. Solly ain’t hankerin’ to take in no white folks’ washin’s to suppote a ole gizzard like Popsy.”

“Whar is Popsy now?” Skeeter asked eagerly.

“He’s at Shin Bone’s resterant here in town,” Isaiah replied.

“Us will go wid you, Isaiah!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Ef dar’s a weddin’ plannin’ I wants to he’p it along.”

The three men hurried to the eating-house as rapidly as Figger’s feeble knees could carry him. Skeeter had to support his friend by holding his arm, for all Figger’s vital force was gone. They found Popsy the only patron of the place and he was using a long table in the middle of the room, not for the consumption of food, but for a bed! He was stretched out full length on the table, his arm under his head for a pillow, his rusty stove-pipe hat placed beside him.

“Dis here bridegroom is takin’ a nap,” Skeeter snickered, as he walked in and sat down at the table beside the sleeping man. The others saw no reason to arouse him from his slumbers, so they sat down beside him and looked at the sleeper. Skeeter walked to another table, picked up a stalk of celery and brought it back and placed it in Popsy’s hand where it rested upon his breast.

Taking off his hat, he placed it with exaggerated solemnity over his heart and sighed with pitiable sadness:

“Don’t he look nachel? Ain’t dat a sweet smile on his face? He looks jes’ like I seed him yistiddy—ain’t changed a bit!”

He walked over to Figger, leaned down, and whispered:

“Wus you acquainted wid de corp’?”

“I knowed him real good,” Figger answered, glaring at the prostrate form. “He shore wus a devilish ole cranky nigger.”

“When does de fun’ral orgies take place?” Skeeter whispered. “Is de Revun Vinegar Atts gwine ’fishiate at de ’terment? Po’ ole man—atter all his troubles, he is at rest!”

A slovenly waitress approached the whispering men, yawned prodigiously, and gazed at Popsy with a stupid face.

“I wants you-alls to wake up Popsy an’ tote him off home to bed. Dis here ain’t no nursery. I’s sleepy an’ it’s time to shet up dis house.”

Pap Curtain, on his way home from Coon Island, saw the men gathered around Popsy and entered.

“Whut ails Popsy, brudders?” he exclaimed. “Is de ole man sick?”

“Naw,” Skeeter snapped. “No such good luck. Mebbe ef he sleeped here till mawnin’ he’d roll off dis table an’ break his fool neck!”

“He’s love-sick,” old Isaiah cackled. “He gittin’ ready to marry.”

“Shore!” Pap snarled. “He tripped up my legs an’ throwed me down. I wus in hopes Popsy wus sick—less shove him off dis table an’ kill him!”

Then another man entered the restaurant. He was a fat, pot-bellied negro, his head bald except for two tufts of hair growing over his ears which made him look like a big fat-faced mule wearing a blind bridle.

“Hello, brudders!” the Rev. Vinegar Atts bellowed. “How come you-alls didn’t stay at de weddin’?”

“Never heard tell about dat’n,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Who is de victims?”

“Brudder Wash Jones an’ Sister Solly Skaggs!”

“Whoo-pee-ee!” Figger Bush screamed. “De Lawd wus shorely wid me. Wash is done saved my life!”

Figger’s wild yell of exultation aroused Popsy from his slumbers. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he saw Isaiah Gaitskill.

“I done decided not to marry Solly, Brudder Isaiah,” he whined. “I tuck a little nap an’ I dreamt a dream dat Calline, my fust wife, come to me an’ warned me to beware of widders. She said dey wus awful treach’rous an’ deceivin’.”

“Calline is got it right, Popsy,” Pap sighed. “My little romance is snipped in de bud.”

“Wash an’ Solly had dat case fixed up in N’ Awleens,” Vinegar told them. “Solly wouldn’t marry Wash onless he had de same amount of money dat she inherited from her husbunt. So Wash arrived in Tickfall, started a Coon Island like N’ Yawk has, collected five hundred admissions at one dollar per each, married Solly an’ lit out on de midnight train.”

“Whut becomes of dat Coon Island?” Pap asked.

“Wash axed me to hand dat whole shebang over to you fer a consolation prize,” Vinegar answered.