  Pant did not return to the neighborhood of the circus grounds until darkness had fallen. Then it was only to go skulking along the beach, and to perch himself at last, owl-like, on a huge pile of sand which overlooked a particular stretch of the beach on which a huge fire of driftwood had been built. The fire had died down now to a great, glowing bed of coals. About the fire eight negroes were seated. “Razor-backs from the circus,” was Pant’s mental comment. “Something doing!” So filled with their own thoughts were the minds of the colored gentlemen that they had failed to note Pant’s arrival. Seated there in the darkness, motionless as an owl watching for the move of a mouse, his mask-like face expressionless, his slim, tapering fingers still, Pant appeared but a part of the dull drab scenery. “Hey, Brother Mose; time to carb de turkey-buzzard,” chuckled one of the darkies. “Brother Mose” turned half about, stretched out a fat hand and drew toward him a thin object wrapped in a newspaper. “Sambo,” he commanded, “leave me have dat cleavah!” Sambo handed over a butcher’s cleaver. The next instant the package was unwrapped, revealing a clean, white strip of meat, which had at one time been half the broad back of a porker. “Po’k chops!” murmured Mose. “Um! Um! Um!” came in a chorus. “Ya-as, sir. Now you-all jes’ stir up dem coals, an’ put dem sweet ’taters roastin’, while I does the slicin’ an’ de cleavin’.” Mose drew a butcher knife from his hip pocket. From a second bulging package on the beach, two of his comrades drew shining yellow tubers, while others stirred up the coals, and raked some out to a circular hole in the sand, which had previously been lined with ashes. Having tossed the coals in, they covered them lightly with ashes, at the same time calling: “Le’s hab dem ’taters!” All this time with no observer save the unsuspected Pant, Mose was operating skillfully on that pork loin. With a slab of drift wood as chopping block, he sliced away with the skill of a hotel butcher. In a twinkle, the chops lay neatly piled in heaps on the slab. Then, while no one was looking, he caused a liberal handful of the chops to disappear into the huge pocket at the back of his coat. Pant’s lips curved in a smile. “Holding out,” he whispered. “Dere dey is,” exulted Mose, like a rooster calling his brood to a meal. “Dere dem po’k chops is, all carved an’ cleaned an’ ready fo’ de roastin’.” “Um, um, um,” chanted his companions in gurgling approval. Whence had come these pork chops? This question did not trouble Pant. They might have been bought at a butcher shop; then again, they might have been stolen. It was enough for Pant that they were there. He was glad. Not that he hoped to “horn in” on the feast; he had eaten bountifully but an hour before. Nevertheless, he was glad to be here. This little festal occasion suited his purpose beautifully. He had hoped something like this might be going on down here. The pork chops stowed away in Mose’s pocket amused him. As he thought of them his former plan changed slightly, his lips twisted in a smile. “It’s all plain enough,” he thought to himself. “Moses and old Lankyshanks, his buddie, have a half hour longer to loaf than the rest of them; that gives them time for a little extra feast. The supplies belong to them all alike, but Mose and Lankyshanks get double portions if—” Here he smiled again. The preparation for the feast went on. Each man twisted out of tangled wire a rude but serviceable broiler. They joked and laughed as they worked, their dark faces shining like ebony. “Po’k chops, po’k chops, po’k chops! Um! Um! Um!” they chanted now and then. In time word was passed around the circle, and then eight right hands shot out and eight broilers hung out over the coals. Snapping and sputtering, flaring up with a sudden burning of grease, whirled now this way, now that, the pork chops rapidly turned a delicious brown. The odor which rose in air would have made a chronic dyspeptic’s mouth water. “Po’k chops, po’k chops, po’k chops! Um! Um! Um!” Twice Pant lifted his eyes toward the stars. Twice he brought them down again. “Haven’t got the heart to do it,” he whispered to himself; “I’ll take a chance and wait.” The sweet potatoes had been dug from the roasting pit; the feasters had sunk their teeth deep in juicy fat, when Pant was suddenly startled by a groan close at hand. Without moving, he turned his head to see a colored boy sitting near him. Recognizing the round, close-cropped bullet head as one belonging not to the circus, but to South Water Street, he leaned over and whispered: “’Lo, Snowball, what y’ doin’ here?” “Same’s you, I reckon.” The boy showed all his teeth in a grin. “Jes’ sittin’ an’ a-wishin’, dat’s all.” “Pork chops, huh?” “Ain’t it so, Mister? Ain’t dem the grandes’ you ain’t most never smelt?” “Sh, not so loud,” cautioned Pant. “Maybe there’ll be some for you yet. Sort of reserve rations.” “Think so, mebby?” Pant nodded. Then together they sat in silence while the feast went on; sat till the last bone and potato skin had been thrown upon the fast dulling coals. “Huh!” sighed Snowball. “Hain’t no mo’.” He half rose to go, but Pant pulled him back to his seat. Six of the colored gentlemen were wiping their hands on greasy bandanas, and were preparing to depart. “Reckon me and Lanky’ll jes’ res’ here for a while,” grunted Mose. “Eh-heh,” assented Lankyshanks. The six had hardly disappeared over the hill when Lankyshanks’ eyes popped wide open. “’Mergency rations,” he whispered. With a grunt of satisfaction, Mose handed three pork chops to Lankyshanks, wired his own three to his broiler, stirred up the fire, then began slowly revolving the sputtering chops over the sparkling embers. For fully five minutes Pant and Snowball, on the sand pile, watched in silence—a silence broken only by an occasional, half audible sigh from Snowball. The chops were done to a brown finish when Pant suddenly fixed his gaze intently upon the big dipper which hung high in the heavens. At that precise instant, Mose, uttering a groan not unlike that of a dying man, threw his broiler high in air, rolled over backward, turned two somersaults, then stumbling to his feet, ran wildly down the beach. Having dropped his chops on the coals, Lanky followed close behind. The expression of utter terror written on their faces was something to see and marvel at. Pant still gazed skyward. Snowball gripped his arm, and whispered tensely: “Lawdy, Mister! Look’a dere!” Pant removed his gaze from the heavens and looked where Snowball pointed, at the bed of dying embers. “What was it, Snowball?” he drawled. “Why! Where are our friends?” “Dey done lef’,” whispered Snowball, still gripping his arm. “An’ so ’ud you. It’s a ha’nt, er a sign, er sumthin’. Blood. It was red, lak blood. All red. Dem fellers was red, an’ dem po’k chops, an’ dat sand, all red lak blood.” “Pork chops,” said Pant slowly. “Yes, sir, po’k chops an’ everything. I done heard dat Mose say it were a sign. Dey’s be a circus wreck, er sumthin’. Train wreck of dat dere circus.” “Pork chops,” said Pant again thoughtfully. “Where did the pork chops go? Why! There is one broiler full on the wood pile. They must have left it there for you.” “No, sir! Dat Mose done throwed it dere. Dat’s how scared he was.” “They won’t be back, I guess; so you’d better just warm them up a bit and sit up to the table.” Terror still lurked in Snowball’s eyes, but in his nostrils still lingered the savory smell of pork chops. The pork chops won out and he was soon feasting royally. “Snowball,” said Pant when the feast was finished, “would you like to earn a little money?” “Would I? Jes’ try me, Mister!” “All right. I want five Liberty Bonds, the fifty-dollar kind. A lot of those circus fellows have them, and some of them will sell them, maybe cheap. Don’t pay more than forty-five for any. Get them for thirty-nine, if you can. The cheap ones are the kind I want. Here’s the money. Don’t bet it, don’t lose it, and don’t let any of those crooks touch you for it. It will take you a little time to find the bonds. I’ll meet you right here in two hours.” Snowball rolled his eyes. “Boss, I sho’ am grateful fo’ th’ compliment, but I is plum scared at all dat money.” “Nobody’ll hurt you or take it from you. You’re honest. If you do lose it, I’ll forgive you. Good-by.” Pant strode rapidly down the beach, leaving Snowball to make his way back to the circus grounds in quest of thirty-nine dollar Liberty Bonds, an article which, if he had but known it, has never existed in legitimate channels of business. |
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