I

“Dis here nigger Uplift League is shore gittin’ active, Figger,” Skeeter Butts remarked one morning as he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and seated himself at a table beside his partner.

Figger Bush sat with his knife-blade poised over the top of the pine table, trying to devise some new design to carve upon that piece of furniture. He showed his lack of interest in the league by replying:

“Dem Uplifters ain’t gwine lift me up. I’s a heavy-weight.”

“You always wus a sinker,” Skeeter smiled, as he watched Figger sketch the outline of an Indian face in the soft pine with his knife-point before beginning to carve. “You jes’ nachelly went down ever since I knowed you.”

“Dese Uplifters is uppity, biggity, high-brow niggers. Dey’s always jawin’ about high cullud sawciety, an’ who b’longs an’ who ain’t b’long. Dey ain’t black folks; dey’s play-like whites.”

“Dey’s actin’ an’ playin’ like niggers now,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey’s in a awful row ’bout who’s gwine be elected to de high-up offices of de Uplift. I never seed de beat of de politickin’ dey’s doin’.”

“Nobody ain’t politicked me yit,” Figger murmured, as his knife slowly moved through the soft pine. “I reckin votes ain’t fetchin’ so awful high price.”

“Dem Uplifters is gwine uplift de price befo’ de election is over,” Skeeter told him. “Ef I had a real loud voice an’ could holler an’ bawl an’ whoop, I’d run fer presidunt of de league myself.”

“You jes’ fergit dem notions off yo’ mind,” Figger growled. “I ain’t aimin’ to keep dis saloon an’ do all de odd jobs while you yelps aroun’ like a kicked dawg about whut oughter be done fer de poor, oppressed cullud race.”

“But de Uplifters is done fergot de po’, oppressed cullud niggers an’ is thinkin’ up cuss names to call each yuther wid,” Skeeter explained. “Some Uplifters ain’t in favor of de way de yuther uplifts is liftin’, an’ dey’s tryin’ to git good riddunce of Mustard Prophet an’ put Pap Curtain in his place as presidunt.”

“Pap Curtain is a slick-head nigger,” Figger growled. “He’s heap mo’ crookeder dan a dawg’s hind leg. Nobody cain’t never git Pap straight.”

“Dat’s de kind of man to git elected,” Skeeter snickered. “It’ll take a slick-head to beat Mustard.”

“You real shore dey ain’t gwine run you fer presidunt?” Figger asked suspiciously.

“Dey ain’t got no notion of dat kind,” Skeeter replied. “Dey don’t see me at all. Dis here is gwine be a real election an’ it takes a loud speecher to git votes. My voice is too squeaky an’ my size is ag’in’ me. A little runt like me wid a screech-owl voice couldn’t git elected as free-meat man in a dawg town.”

“I’s glad you’s so modest, Skeeter,” his friend grinned. “My idear is dat dis saloon is gwine be de chiefest headquarters of bofe sides of de Uplifters. We’ll rake in a heap of dollars by bein’ puffeckly neuter in dis race. Ef we takes sides, we loses money.”

“Dat’s so,” Skeeter agreed. “But I heerd Pap Curtain talkin’ down in Dirty-Six an’ Pap got de right notion. He says dat we need new blood in de Uplift League. He says dem officers whut’s got de honors now jes’ holds deir jobs an’ don’t do nothin’. He says our race is sinkin’ down because dem Uplifters ain’t liftin’ up. He says dat de pusson who will git charge of dat league an’ make it active an’ yellervate de race will be Tickfall’s most leadin’ cullud sitson.”

“I wouldn’t objeck to bein’ de leadin’ member of de Tickfall blacks,” Figger sighed. “But I’s like you—I ain’t got de voice. I’s got de heft on you, but I don’t weigh as much as Hitch Diamond or Vinegar Atts, an’ ef weight an’ voice is gwine win out, Ginny Babe Chew is got us all beat a mile.”

“Dat’s a funny thing about dis here race,” Skeeter chuckled. “Ginny Babe Chew is a runnin’, too!”

“Uhuh!” Figger grunted. “Dat means dat eve’y Uplifter in de league is gwine have a rep onless dey votes fer her. Dat ole woman knows all de sins all de niggers in Tickfall is cormitted. She tells ’em, too. An’ when it comes to callin’ cuss-names, all us is new beginners to Ginny Babe. Dat gal’s had expe’unce.”

“I ain’t gwine mess wid it, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he thought uneasily of the things Ginny might tell about him. “I don’t want my rep ruint by Ginny Babe. Us’ll bofe be neuter an’ keep dis saloon.”

At that moment the door of the saloon was pushed open and a diminutive darky named Little Bit entered.

Little Bit had apparently robbed a woman’s wardrobe for his wearing apparel. For coat, he wore the upper half of a woman’s coat-suit, the tail flapping down around his knees and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to give exit to his short arms. For a shirt, he wore a woman’s shirt-waist, silk material, flowered and lacy and frilled. We presume that the woman’s husband had contributed the masculine portion of the attire, for the trousers had originally belonged to a man much larger in the waist and much longer in the legs than Little Bit, and the pants were hitched about his middle and cut off at the knees. For hose, he wore—here I cross my heart and hope I may die—a woman’s purple-silk stockings, ending at the feet with a pair of ladies’ pumps, gray suÈde in color with high French heels!

“Whar in de name of mud is you been at?” Skeeter Butts howled as he glared at his wristwatch. “Is you wuckin’ in dis saloon or is you ain’t? You expeck me to pay you wages when you comes here at mighty nigh dinner-time an’ aims to do a day’s wuck?”

“I been listenin’ to Pap Curtain make a speech,” Little Bit snickered. “He’s got a chunk of rock salt in one hand an’ a sour lemon in de yuther, an’ he’s talkin’ about all de sins of de Uplifters. He wants me to he’p him win out.”

“You!” Skeeter Butts shrieked.

“You!” Figger howled.

“Suttinly,” Little Bit answered. “I got plenty influence an’ kin git a lot of votes. Pap say to me dat plenty offices is to be give away to his supporters ef he gits elected an’ he done tipped me off dat I’ll be de fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay.”

“But me an’ Figger is gwine be neuter in dis race,” Skeeter snapped. “De Hen-Scratch saloon will be de grand high headquarters of all de politics. Dis saloon mussn’t take no sides.”

“I ain’t no pardner here,” Little Bit replied. “Nobody won’t pay no mind to me.”

“All right,” Skeeter said after a moment’s thought. “I reckin you don’t count fer nothin’ nohow. But I don’t stand fer no politickin’ about dis place. Ef you gits to makin’ any of Pap’s speeches fer him, I’ll shore suppress you.”

Little Bit shuffled his high-heeled pumps in a few dance steps to show his contempt for this warning and passed out.

“I hope dis politics disease ain’t ketchin’,” Figger sighed. “Little Bit is done got de germ.”

“’Tain’t ketchin’,” Skeeter assured him. “But I shore hopes Pap is gwine win out or some yuther good man. Mustard Prophet oughter be squelched.”

“I ain’t huntin’ no job like dat,” Figger replied as he closed his knife and looked with admiration upon his handiwork. “I’s gwine home to my dinner. Scootie is cooked some hot cakes an’ I’m got a gallon of sirup.”

II

In Pap Curtain’s career he had driven many carriages which transported over the Parish of Tickfall the candidates for the offices within the gift of the people. He now recalled to his profit that every prospective Congressman, Governor, and Senator went from house to house, seeking out each voter, loudly enunciating their political principles, and soliciting their votes.

Figger Bush, on his way home to his dinner of hot cakes and sirup, found a little group of negroes standing on a corner in Dirty-Six, with Pap Curtain in the midst. Pap gesticulated with his left hand, which held a lemon, and his harsh, snarling voice clearly enunciated the principles on which he hoped to be elected president of the Tickfall Uplift League.

Figger slipped quietly around the little group, determined to go on his way. But Pap would let no possible voter escape.

“Ain’t dat so, Brudder Figger Bush?” Pap howled.

“Whut?” Figger asked, brought to a sudden halt.

“Ain’t whut I been sayin’ true fer a fack?” Pap demanded.

“I ain’t heerd nothin’,” Figger mumbled, longing to escape.

Pap walked over and laid an impressive and detaining hand upon Figger’s shoulder. The crowd moved with Pap and enclosed him, and Figger found himself shut in on all sides.

“I been explavacatin’ dat de Uplift League ain’t been run right. Ain’t dat so?” Pap snarled.

“’Tain’t been run to suit me,” Figger murmured knowing that he could escape more easily if he agreed with Pap than would be possible if he started an argument.

“Suttin, it ain’t!” Pap howled triumphantly. “’Tain’t been run to suit nobody. De dues is too high, de members of de league is too choosy about admittin’ new members, an’ a poor an’ meek-seemin’ man ain’t got no show. Ain’t dat right?”

“Shore is,” Figger muttered, with some reluctance.

“You know how ’tis yo’ own self, Figger!” Pap howled, elated over Figger’s endorsement of his position. “I remember once you wusn’t allowed to come inside de league meetin’ because you had on shoes ’thout no socks!”

“Dat’s so,” Figger agreed.

“I argufies dat wus a insult an’ a outrage!” Pap snarled. “Don’t you agree wid dem sentiments?”

“Yes, suh.”

“I proclamates dat de members of de league oughter be allowed to dress as dey dern please,” Pap howled. “Let ’em come wid socks or widout socks—dem’s my docterines!”

A murmur of acquiescence arose from the little group, and Pap with true oratorical instinct felt that he had shot off the one big set-piece of fireworks in his display, and that he had better quit at his climax. Let it be said to his credit that he did not linger to shoot off a single lonesome skyrocket of eloquence, but closed his mouth right there, and laid hold upon Figger’s arm and led him down the street and away from the rest of the group.

“I wants you to go to my cabin wid me, Figger,” he whispered. “Us oughter git togedder an’ whup out dem ins an’ git in ourselves.”

“Scootie is expectin’ me home ’bout now,” Figger remonstrated.

“I won’t keep you long,” Pap assured him.

“Whut you think is my chance to git elected?”

“I reckin you got some show ef you kin git enough niggers to vote fer you,” Figger told him.

“It’s principles dat gits votes,” Pap proclaimed. “I’s preachin’ de only docterine whut hits a nigger right—eve’y feller do as he please!”

“Preachin’ don’t git no votes,” Figger disagreed. “Mostest votes is got by de man whut gits de mostest niggers to vote fer him and wuck fer him.”

“Dat’s why I needs you, Figger,” Pap said, as they walked up the steps and sat down on a bench on Curtain’s porch. “I wants you to come in wid me an he’p me git elected.”

“Dar ain’t nothin’ in de race fer me,” Figger declined promptly. “I don’t care who is de head leader of de league. I ain’t in de Uplift bizzness. I’s in de barroom bizzness.”

“Dar’s plenty in it fer you,” Pap told him. “A presidunt is got to hab a vice-presidunt, ain’t he? I wants you to run wid me an’ be my vice-presidunt. In case I dies or gits in jail, you gits de presidunt job.”

Figger Bush drew in his breath sharply, then sat for a long time in silence, looking into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree. Honors had been suddenly thrust upon him. Pap was old and his chance of dying was good. He was a “slick-head” negro, and his chance of getting into jail was better. It did not require much imagination for Figger Bush to see all obstacles cleared away, and behold himself as the honored president of the Uplift League.

Scootie’s hot cakes got cold; Figger never did come home to eat them.

Skeeter Butts tended bar alone until sundown before he saw his partner again. When Figger entered, Skeeter howled:

“Looky here, you done been gone long enough to go to a fun’ral an’ mourn de loss of yo’ best frien’. Did dem hot cakes knock you out?”

“Ain’t had none,” Figger answered, glancing up in surprise at the sudden recollection of his lost dinner. “Fergot all about ’em.”

“Whut ails you? Whar you been at? De fust notion you know, you’ll git fired!”

“Ef I gits elected, I don’t keer ef——”

“Ef you git—whut?” Skeeter interrupted, his eyes bulging with astonishment, which rapidly changed to anger and disgust.

“Pap Curtain is candidated me to run fer vice-presidunt wid him,” Figger explained. “Ef Pap dies or gits in jail, I gits to be plum’ presidunt. De chances is pretty good. Pap digs wells fer a livin’ an’ he’s got plenty good chances to git blowed wid dynamite.”

“Positively not!” Skeeter howled. “Dynamite might blow up whar Pap wus, but ’tain’t never been quick enough to blow up whar Pap is.”

“Anyhow, Pap’s a snoopy, slick-head nigger, an’ he’s got a good chance to git in jail,” Figger continued.

“Listen to yo’ fool talk!” Skeeter ranted. “Slick-heads don’t never git in jail. Dey chooses ’em a pardner or a vice-presidunt, an’ it’s dat mud-head dat gits in jail.”

“Anyways, I’ll shore be presidunt some of de time, because when de gram jury meets, Pap always gits de trabbel-itch an’ leaves town,” Figger rambled on.

Overcome by an assortment of emotions, Skeeter Butts placed his feet on the table and let himself down in his chair until he was sitting on his shoulder-blades. He fanned himself with his derby hat and glared at Figger fairly speechless with wrath.

“Of co’se, I mought not git elected, but me ’n’ Pap will gib ’em a good race——”

“You bet you ain’t gwine be elected,” Skeeter shrieked. “You ain’t gwine be allowed to run! You’s de wuss loontick I ever did see.”

“I ain’t no loontick,” Figger retorted. “De last words you said to me befo’ I lef’ fer dinner—an’ I shore regrets dat I loss dat dinner by deprivity—you said you hoped Pap would git elected. Now I ups an’ offers to he’p Pap an’ you go poppin’ off——”

“Stop talkin’ to me about Pap Curtain,” Skeeter shouted. “Dat ole brayin’ jackace is jes’ makin’ a noise to git hisself heard. He won’t lose nothin’ ef he gits beat, but ef you runs wid Pap, us is gwine to lose half dis saloon bizzness because de yuther side won’t paternize us none.”

Figger gasped for breath.

“I fergot that arrangement entirely, Skeeter,” he exclaimed. “Us wus gwine keep out of it. But dat won’t be so awful bad. Pap an’ me an’ our crowd will suppote de Hen-Scratch.”

“I’s sorry you done mint us, Figger,” Skeeter said sadly as he arose to go out for his evening meal. “But I freely admits dat you wus a fool an’ didn’t know no better.”

III

Skeeter slapped his derby hat on his head with such force that it popped like a tambourine in a minstrel show, and stalked angrily out of the room.

He moped down the street and sauntered slowly into the Shin Bone restaurant, sighing pitifully and feeling very sorry for himself.

A slovenly waitress suppressed a yawn, shuffled across the floor in slipshod shoes, and asked indifferently: “Whut’s yours?”

Skeeter waited a moment, hoping that his appearance of personified calamity would impress the woman and she would sympathize with his heart-break, but she looked like she was going to sleep while standing in the middle of the floor so he barked his order:

“I’s had so many troubles my appetite is plum’ gone, Pearly. Gimme a plate of gumbo soup, a dozen fried oystyers, a bait of fried catfish, two slices of apple pie an’ a glass of milk, a hunk of watermelon an’ a cup of coffee.”

He smoked cigarettes and thought up mean things to say to Figger Bush until the order was filled, then courted suffocation for twenty minutes by eating so rapidly that he did not take the time to breathe.

He had reached out for the pie and milk when Shin Bone, the proprietor of the eating-house, came from behind a screen and seated himself at the same table.

“’Lo, Shinny,” Skeeter mumbled as he tried to stuff a whole slice of pie in his mouth at one time, and therefore became incapable of coherent speech for the next few minutes.

“Hello,” Shin replied, watching Skeeter with interest until the last of the first slice of pie was washed down by the milk. “How’s bizzness?”

“’Tain’t so awful bad,” Skeeter replied. “You an’ me is got good trades. Folks comes to yo’ place because dey gits hungry reg’lar, an’ dey comes to me because dey gits thirsty reg’lar. All we got to do is to wait till dey comes.”

“I ain’t find dat true now, Skeeter,” Shin said gloomily. “Wid me, bizzness is plum’ rotten.”

“How come?” Skeeter asked unconcernedly.

“Pol’tics.”

Skeeter’s interest revived. His second slice of pie lingered half a foot from his mouth, poised upon his hand.

“Dis here Uplift League election has done loss me all de customers I’m got,” Shin mourned. “Dey done boycotted me, an’ tunked my bizzness in de head wid a ax.”

“Dey hadn’t oughter done it,” Skeeter exclaimed, working himself into a panic. “How did it come to pass?”

“My wife, Whiffle, is de niece of Pap Curtain,” Shin explained. “Pap is runnin’ fer de presidunt of de Liftuppers ag’in Mustard Prophet. All niggers dat favors Mustard is done cut me out.”

“But Pap oughter git you some customers,” Skeeter protested.

“Pap ain’t got de right follerin’,” Shin sighed. “Niggers dat votes wid Pap is de no-shirt, no-sock outfit, an’ dat kind ain’t got no money to buy vittles. Dey begs deir grub from de cook-ladies in de white folks’ kitchen. Mustard Prophet is got de high-brow, uppity niggers wid him an’ dey’s got de money an’ eats here wid me.”

Skeeter nodded in speechless comprehension of the tragedy, the hand which held the pie wavered and sank slowly to the table, for that pie didn’t look good to Skeeter any more.

“Dem Mustard Prophet voters say dey ain’t never comin’ in here no more,” Shin said dolefully.

“Ef dey don’t feel no better dan I does now, dey wouldn’t fotch you much trade, fer dey couldn’t eat no more dan a brass monkey,” Skeeter sighed, pulling his slice of watermelon closer to him, although unconscious of his action. Beads of apprehensive perspiration stood out on his forehead and a sudden weakness assailed him.

“Whut ails you, Skeeter?” Shin inquired solicitously, for Skeeter had suddenly collapsed like a punctured tire. “Don’t you feel good?”

“Somepin I done et is disagreed wid me,” Skeeter moaned. “Lemme git dis coffee down me befo’ I die!”

Shin waited until Skeeter consumed his coffee and rallied.

“Of co’se, Whiffle cain’t he’p bein’ my wife, an’ she cain’t he’p bein’ kin to Pap, an’ we bofe cain’t he’p it ef Pap runs fer presidunt, but we shore is got our nose broke.”

“Don’t tell me no more, Shinny,” Skeeter exclaimed, waving both hands and rising to his feet. “My head is crazy now.”

“Is you got troubles, too?” Shin asked sympathetically.

“Troubles?” Skeeter howled. “Ain’t you heerd about Figger Bush? He’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt wid Pap Curtain.”

“You an’ me bofe blowed up suckers, Skeeter,” Shin said in tragic tones. “Our bizzness is bum an’ busted.”

“It’s powerful bad, Shinny,” Skeeter agreed.

“Badder dan you think, Skeeter,” Shin said. “Pap an’ Figger is shore to be elected.”

“How does you dope dat out?” Skeeter asked, panting for breath.

“It lines up dis way,” Shin informed him. “Ginny Babe Chew is runnin’ her petticoat pol’tics fer presidunt. All of Pap’s follerers is sinners in de sight of de Lawd, an’ Ginny Babe Chew is done pronounced on deir sins copious an’ frequent, so Pap an’ his crowd hates her. In dat case, Mustard Prophet ain’t gwine git as many votes as he oughter had because Ginny Babe is runnin’ an’ she’ll git her voters from Mustard’s crowd. Of co’se, when de high-brows splits up deir vote, Pap an’ Figger will snow ’em over an’ got in solid.”

Skeeter felt a sudden weakness in his knees and sat down forcibly on the top of the table. Whereupon he felt considerable moisture in the vicinity of his coat-tail and sprang up to find that he had seated himself upon his slice of watermelon.

“By jacks!” he exclaimed dramatically. “Figger is done ruint my bizzness an’ I done ruint my pants!”

“Ef I wus you, I’d git rid of ’em bofe,” Shin suggested, as Skeeter walked out of the restaurant, wiping the moisture from his trousers with his handkerchief.

When Skeeter had gone, Shin found that the slice of watermelon had not been completely crushed and was not entirely unedible, so he drew himself up to the table and thankfully ate the uninjured part.

“Ef Skeeter wusn’t such a lightweight, dis whole chunk would hab been sp’iled,” he grinned.

He felt better after eating the melon until he suddenly recalled that Skeeter had left the eating-house without paying for his meal.

When Skeeter was outside of the restaurant, he promptly forgot his trousers and started for his home in a trot. He went up the long hill toward the Flournoy place like a brown shadow passing through the darkness, threw open the door of a little shed and seized the crank of his “flivver.”

A moment later he was out in the public highway, speeding through the night toward the Nigger-Heel plantation, on which Mustard Prophet was the overseer.

He found Mustard sitting on the porch of his house, shirtless and barefooted, smoking a vile corncob pipe.

“Set down, Skeeter,” he said in greeting. “Take off all yo’ clothes an’ git cool. Dar ain’t no lady folks aroun’.”

“I feel real chilly, Mustard,” Skeeter said in reply. “Dat is, I’s got cold foots.”

“Whut ails you?”

“I been hearin’ dat a move is started to kick you out as presidunt of de Liftup League.”

“Dat’s so,” Mustard said indifferently. “Dey cusses me fer whut I does an’ dey cusses me fer whut I ain’t do, an’ now dey is tryin’ to boost me out an’ drap me down.”

“I don’t favor it, Mustard,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I come out to offer my he’p. You oughter hab me to scuffle fer you durin’ de day while you got to wuck on dis plantation.”

“Dat’s a good notion, Skeeter,” Mustard said thankfully. “I app’ints you he’per right now.”

“Hol’ on, Mustard,” Skeeter said. “It don’t go so fast an’ easy as dat. In de fust place, I wants de Hen-Scratch saloon to be de headquarters of yo’ side in de race.”

“I’ll arrange dat,” Mustard said easily.

“In de nex’ place, I wants to run wid you on yo’ side fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter continued.

“I’ll fix dat easy,” Mustard said. “Dar ain’t nobody wid good sense dat wants to be vice-presidunt of nothin’. Dat’s like bein’ de curl in a pig’s tail—jes’ ornamental behind.”

“’Tain’t no diffunce, I wants dat job,” Skeeter insisted.

“I announces you to-morrer,” Mustard said.

“Dat’s all, Mustard,” Skeeter concluded, as he slapped his hat on his head. “I got to hustle back now an’ start my voters to wuckin’.”

“Dar now!” Skeeter said to himself exultantly, as his little machine rattled off the miles back to Tickfall. “I done got dat fixed right. Figger is vice-presidunt on one side an’ I is vice-presidunt on de yuther side, an’ bofe sides is promised to make de Hen-Scratch deir headquarters.”

Seven miles of sandy road slipped under his flying wheels like a brown ribbon while he contemplated this master stroke of business. He placed his little machine under the shed and climbed into bed before he spoke to himself again:

“Dat’s whut I calls a good sense compromise.”

IV

“Now, Figger,” Skeeter Butts announced the next morning, “I got such a idjut fer a partner in dis here saloon dat I had to go git myse’f candidated fer pol’tics.”

“Is you runnin’ fer presidunt?” Figger asked. “I thought you said you squealed too much when you talked.”

“I’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter said solemnly. “I’s runnin’ wid Mustard Prophet an’ us is shore gwine gib you an’ Pap Curtain a happy time gittin’ elected.”

“Dat looks bad to me, Skeeter—pardners in bizzness runnin’ ag’in’ each yuther.”

“Dat’s de best bizzness trick I’s done yit,” Skeeter said confidently. “Bofe sides uses dis house fer headquarters. I sells drinks to de Mustard Prophets an’ you sells drinks to de Pap Curtains, an’ we ketch ’em comin’ an’ gwine.”

“I sees,” Figger exclaimed in a voice which throbbed with admiration. “Dat’s de best nigger idear in Tickfall. We’ll git rich an’ one of us will git elected.”

“Look out fer Ginny Babe Chew!” the voice of Little Bit proclaimed from the other end of the room, where the little darky wrestled with a broom. “She’s de one whut’ll ketch you-alls comin’ an’ gwine!”

“Us don’t care nothin’ fer dat ole squawkin’ fat hen,” Skeeter replied contemptuously.

“You better not git too close,” Little Bit warned. “Dat ole hen’ll peck you!”

“Shut up! You git dis saloon cleant up. Us is expect plenty comp’ny to-day.”

“It wus a narrer squeak fer us, Figger,” Skeeter said earnestly. “When you didn’t stay neuter dis bizzness wus ’bout to go bust ontil I made dem new arrangements.”

During the day Pap Curtain came in and held sundry whispered conferences with Figger Bush. Mustard Prophet drove to town and was closeted for two hours with Skeeter Butts. Both men were arranging for a conference at the Hen-Scratch saloon that night with their henchmen, and both barkeepers were feeling elated at the prospect of a prosperous evening.

Then Vinegar Atts entered and spoiled it all. He left his little red runabout snorting and spitting outside the door while he entered with haste carrying some of the paraphernalia of a fisherman.

“Gimme a little snake-bite med’cine, Skeeter,” he yelled. “I’s in a hurry. I’s gwine fishin’ an’ I’s heard tell dat snakes in plenty in de swamp.”

“Is fish bitin’?” Figger inquired.

“Dunno,” Vinegar replied. “I done selected dis occupation to keep from stayin’ in town. Dat Uplift election is done deprived me of my goat. I’s skeart to stay here an’ git on either side. It’ll bust up my Shoofly chu’ch.”

“Ef us wus twins an’ could git on bofe sides, dat wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

“Whar you been at dat you don’t know nothin’?” demanded Vinegar in disgusted tones. “Some of dem niggers whut represent bofe sides come to my chu’ch to prayer-meetin’ last night, an’ dey got in a fight at de door of de meetin’-house!”

“Dey oughter be churched!” Skeeter exclaimed.

“Dey would hab been churched, only I agonized wid ’em an’ got ’em to bury de hatchet. But I ain’t runnin’ no risks. Dey buried de hatchet, but dey left de handle stickin’ out!”

“Dat’s bad news, Rev’un,” Skeeter sighed. “Dis here am de official headquarters of bofe sides.”

“Bad luck, Skeeter!” Vinegar bellowed as he started toward the door. “You better hang a piece of black crape on de Hen-Scratch door and go fishin’ wid me. Dem niggers will shore rough-house you when dey git started, an’ you’ll be same as dead.”

Vinegar departed, leaving uneasiness and anxiety where confidence had been.

In the evening, the saloon rapidly filled with negroes who came in from the country. They were all hardy men, with muscles of oak and iron—one-shirt, one-gallus fellows of the baser sort, who despised the colored man who lived in town, wore a derby hat, sported a high collar, and was stuck up. These were all sullen and devoted adherents of Pap Curtain, and after listening for a while to their bitter anarchistic talk, Figger Bush became frightened of his own supporters and wished there was some easy and unostentatious way to resign.

“Dem fellers is rambunctious,” he whispered fearfully to his partner. “Dey comes at eve’ything butt-end fust an’ hits it wid a jolt. I wish I hadn’t never et outen de same spoon wid ’em.”

“Don’t stir ’em up too much, Figger,” Skeeter urged him. “Mebbe when some of my gang comes in dey’ll calm down a little.”

But Skeeter found that when a bull is mad the sight of another bull does not calm his spirit; it rouses him to battle.

A number of town negroes drifted in, took a look at the situation, and drifted quietly out. They had counted the number of Pap’s adherents and had gone for reËnforcements, for the saloon was soon filled with men who were loud in their praise of Mustard Prophet, and they outnumbered Pap’s followers three to one.

Pap’s crowd, dusty, ragged, trampish-looking, drew off at one end of the saloon and composed a little, sour, ugly bunch; over against the more dressy Tickfall bunch, they were a sad contrast, and they felt it.

Then Pap Curtain entered the scene, and his followers took heart.

Pap was practicing the political trick of looking like he belonged to the great common people, and had come up from the commonest of them all. He was a grave-digger and well-digger by profession, and he looked to-night like he had just finished the job of digging all the graves and wells that would be needed in Tickfall Parish for many years to come. There was fresh clay on his clothes and hat and shoes; clay streaked his yellow baboon face, and was plastered thick upon his horny hands. He joined his bunch with many noisy greetings and much hand-shakings, and glared over at the town crowd with every manifestation of contempt that he could devise.

Mustard Prophet came in and joined the town crowd. He was a good-natured, easy-smiling, hard-working negro who had the confidence and esteem of all the people in the town, white and black. Yet he was a real country negro, who had never lived in Tickfall in his life, while Pap had spent many years in Tickfall and owned his cabin there.

Smilingly, Mustard turned to Skeeter, and said, loud enough for everyone to hear:

“Less git dese here obsequies started, Skeeter. What am de plogram?”

“I ain’t fixed up no special diagram,” Skeeter muttered. “Mebbe we mought start somepin off ef bofe de leadin’ candidates made a speech.”

“Let ’em speech!” a number of voices exclaimed.

“Brudders, I introduces Pap Curtain,” Skeeter announced. “He’s runnin’ fer presidunt of de Uplift. We axes him to say de fust words.”

“I ain’t used to speakin’ ’thout I kin cuss,” Pap Curtain began, in his snarly voice, gazing at the Prophet aggregation with contemptuous eyes and sneering lips. “When I sees a lot of dude niggers tryin’ to ack like Gawd made a mistake when He didn’t make ’em white, I don’t cuss, because I ain’t able to do the subjeck jestice. I thanks de good Lawd dat I ain’t nothin’ but a corn-fiel’ nigger, brudder of de cotton-fiel’ mule, an’ I makes my livin’ diggin’ wells, ditches, an’ graves. I done dug de graves of all de dead, an’ now I’s gittin’ ready to dig de graves of some dat’s livin’. We corn-fiel’ niggers will bury Mustard Prophet an’ his Tickfall dudes when de day of votin’ comes!”

A sullen note of applause came from Pap’s ugly-looking crowd, but there was no enthusiasm, no good-will. In a word, Pap’s crowd were not good sportsmen. One man took a big red apple out of his pocket, wiped it off on the leg of his trousers and began to eat it.

“I now introduces Mustard Prophet,” Skeeter announced uneasily.

There was handclapping, several shouts of applause. Mustard’s crowd had been trained in the lodges and the various clubs and knew a little better how to act under the circumstances.

“I don’t see no reason fer gittin’ sour an’ ugly, brudders,” Mustard began. “Nobody ain’t gwine lose much ef he don’t git elected presidunt of de league. In de last year I ain’t got nothin’ fer my presidunt job but a cuss-word eve’y time I do somepin dat don’t please nobody. Of co’se I wants to keep on wid dis job an’ hopes you won’t fergit to vote fer me. Pap Curtain says he’s a corn-fiel’, cotton-fiel’ nigger, but dar ain’t no man, white ner black, dat ever seed him wuckin’ in no kind of fiel’ as a country nigger oughter do. He lives in dis town, an’ he owns his house in dis town. As you-all knows, I’s a real country nigger, never did live in town, an’ I been de overseer of Marse Tom’s plantation fer twenty year. I tries to stand by de high notions of de Uplift. I preaches dat a feller ought to dress up in work clothes when he wucks, an’ put on his compan’y clothes when he goes out in sawciety, an’ wear his Sunday clothes at de lodge an’ de fun’ral an’ de meetin’-house——”

At this point the apple-eating adherent of Pap Curtain had consumed his apple to the core. He balanced it on his thumb as a child prepares to shoot a marble, and flicked it across the room, where it landed on the top of Mustard Prophet’s bald head.

Mustard Prophet stepped down from the chair on which he was standing, walked quietly across the room, laid hold of the collar of the offender, kicked his shins, punched his jaw, then turned him around and booted him across the room.

It was no more than the offender deserved, but he offered all the resistance and counter-offensive in his power, and while this was going on someone slipped behind Mustard and administered a lusty and soul-satisfying kick to him.

The notion became contagious. The two forces joined in combat, but, strange to say, they did not fight with fists, but with feet.

“Look at dat!” Little Bit exclaimed, as he scrambled to a safe place on the top of the bar, where he danced up and down in his high-heeled pumps. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kick eve’ybody else!”

In a moment the crowd was so cramped for room that they had to abandon that mode of combat and began to fight with their fists. They milled around and around, pounding, scrouging, punching with elbows, while their voices rose in a mighty diaphony of imprecation and abuse.

“Lawd! Lawd!” Little Bit exclaimed in a prayerful voice from his place of safety on the bar. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to hit eve’ybody else!”

In the fury of battle the men sought other weapons and found the numerous chairs most convenient. In the jam they found it impossible to swing the chairs and hit with them, so they held the chairs before them, as a lion-tamer does, and charged their opponents, holding their heads low to avoid being clubbed. The resemblance to a lot of milling, horning cattle struck Little Bit at once, and from his vantage-point upon the bar he announced the procedure:

“Eve’y bully is tryin’ to hook eve’ybody else!”

Skeeter Butts had seen as much of the fray as he could stand, so he ran behind the bar, seized his automatic pistol and fired it in the air, holding the weapon out of the window. He knew how dangerous such a performance was, for it might suggest to the angry negroes the use of their own guns. But he took the chance with the hope that the town watchman would hear the firing and come to the rescue.

The negroes took no notice of the pistol-firing, for some of them had found new and mightier weapons. There were half a dozen tables in the room, and when some of these were overturned, the men wrenched the legs off, and with shouts of glee brought these mighty clubs into action.

“Gawdlemighty!” Little Bit screamed. “Eve’ybody is tryin’ to kill eve’ybody else!”

Figger rushed to the electric-switch and turned off the lights.

“Bless Gawd!” Little Bit bawled. “Eve’ybody cain’t see eve’ybody else!”

Suddenly a voice cut through the sound and fury of that room.

“Hey, you niggers! Turn on the lights!”

Silence except for the tramping of many feet going toward doors and windows.

“Halt!”

Silence, broken by the sound of running feet. The light flashed on and Little Bit stood by the switch.

“Dey’s all went, cap’n,” he snickered. “Nobody here excusin’ me!”

The watchman pushed open the swinging door and passed out into the night.

“I guess de meetin’ is over,” Little Bit giggled. “I’ll shet up an’ go home to bed.”

He carefully examined his garments to see that they had not been hurt in the scramble, smoothing his flowered shirt-waist shirt, and pulling up his purple-silk stockings till they were trim and neat over his legs.

“I’m glad dem scufflers didn’t spile my ladylike clothes,” he said proudly. “Ginny Babe Chew says I’s de sensation of de town!”

V

During the night there was an exodus from Tickfall on the part of certain citizens.

Skeeter Butts and Figger Bush left for the fishing-camp, where Vinegar Atts had taken refuge. They found Pap Curtain and Mustard Prophet sitting in front of a camp-fire, telling the pastor of the Shoofly church the story of their rival race for president of the Uplift League.

The place of assembly was known as the Buzzard’s Roost, a camp hidden deep in the Little Moccasin Swamp on the banks of the Dorfoche Bayou. During the next day, their company was augmented by various negroes who nursed wounds and bruises acquired in the affray in the saloon. But they were all fugitives—and friends now.

Followers of Pap Curtain and followers of Mustard Prophet dug bait and cut poles and rigged up fishing-lines and entered into friendly piscatorial rivalry and forgot all about the elevation of the poor, oppressed colored race. Ten days passed in a happy vacation for the whole care-free bunch.

Then Little Bit made his appearance at the Buzzard’s Roost with an important announcement:

“You won’t git arrested ef you comes in now, brudders. De police is done fergot all about you.”

“Whut’s de good news in Tickfall, Little Bit?” Skeeter inquired.

“De election is done winned,” Little Bit told him.

“Who am presidunt?” Mustard Prophet asked hopefully.

“Ginny Babe Chew.”

A low moan of sorrow came from the throats of the crowd.

“Yes, suh,” Little Bit continued. “De Uplift League met an’ called a election immediate, an’ Ginny got all de votes.”

“Who else wus ’lected?” Figger asked.

“Me!” Little Bit grinned proudly. “I was ’lected fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay. I’m de only man whut got a job. De lady folks took a look at dese here ladylike clothes an’ dey ’lected me unanermous.”

There was silence for quite a while. Then Skeeter asked:

“Is de Hen-Scratch pretty much busted up, Little Bit?”

“Naw. ’Tain’t hurt any. I nailed de legs on de tables an’ patched up de broke chairs an’ us is jes’ as good off as ever.”

Skeeter glanced toward his automobile and rose to his feet.

“I’s gwine back to town, niggers!” he announced. “You-all kin foller. De fust drink in de Hen-Scratch is a free-fer-all on me!”

A shout of applause greeted this.

“But listen, fellers,” Skeeter said earnestly. “From dis time on, as fer as I’m concerned, pol’tics is nix!”