The Project Gutenberg EBook of E. K. Means, by Eldred Kurtz Means This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: E. K. Means Is This a Title? It Is Not. It Is the Name of a Writer of Negro Stories, Who Has Made Himself So Completely the Writer of Negro Stories That His Book Needs No Title Author: Eldred Kurtz Means Release Date: March 24, 2019 [EBook #59121] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK E. K. MEANS *** Produced by hekula03, Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) Drawn by E. W. Kemble. “Boo-hoo,” Scootie wailed. “Aw! shut up,” the old man snapped. (See page 12.) i ii E. K. MEANS Is this a title? It is not. It is the name of a writer of negro stories, who has made himself so completely the writer of negro stories that his book needs no title. ILLUSTRATED BY KEMBLE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON The Knickerbocker Press 1918 COPYRIGHT, 1918 BY E. K. MEANS The Knickerbocker Press, New York To ROBERT H. DAVIS WHO TAUGHT ME HOW AND “ITTU” WHO KEPT ME AT IT. iii iv v Foreword. The stories in this volume were written simply because of my interest in the stories themselves and because of a whimsical fondness for the people of that Race to whom God has given two supreme gifts,—Music and Laughter. For the benefit of the curious, I may say that many of the incidents in these tales are true and many of the characters and places mentioned actually exist. The Hen-Scratch saloon derived its name from the fact that many of its colored habitués played “craps” on the ground under the chinaberry trees until the soil was marked by their scratching finger-nails like a chicken-yard. The name Tickfall is fictitious, but the locality will be easily recognized by the true names of the negro settlements, Dirty-Six, Hell’s-Half-Acre, Shiny, Tinrow,—lying in the sand around that rich and aristocratic little town like pigs around their dam and drawing their sustenance therefrom. Skeeter Butts’s real name is Perique. Perique is also the name of Louisiana’s famous homegrown tobacco, and as Skeeter is too diminutive to be named after a whole cigar, his white friends have always called him Butts. Vinegar Atts is a well-known colored preacher of north Louisiana, whose “swing-tail prancin’-albert coat” has been seen in many pulpits, and whose “stove-pipe, preachin’ hat” has been the target of many a stone thrown from a mischievous white boy’s hand. Hitch Diamond is known at every landing place on the Mississippi River as “Big Sandy.” When these tales were first published in the All Story Weekly, many readers declared that they were humorous. Nevertheless, I hold that a story containing dialect must necessarily have many depressing and melancholy features. But dialect does not consist of perverted pronunciations and phonetic orthography. True dialect is a picture in cold type of the manifold peculiarities of the mind and temperament. In its form, I have attempted to give merely a flavor of the negro dialect; but I have made a sincere attempt to preserve the essence of dialect by making these stories contain a true idea of the negro’s shrewd observations, curious retorts, quaint comments, humorous philosophy, and his unique point of view on everything that comes to his attention. The Folk Tales of Joel Chandler Harris are imperishable pictures of plantation life in the South before the Civil War and of the negro slave who echoed all his master’s prejudice of caste and pride of family in the old times that are no more. The negroes of this volume are the sons of the old slaves. Millions of them live to-day in the small Southern villages, and as these stories indicate, many changes of character, mind, and temperament have taken place in the last half- century through the modifications of freedom and education. This type also is passing. In a brief time, the negro who lives in these pages will be a memory, like Uncle Remus. “Ethiopia is stretching out her hands” after art, science, literature, and wealth, and when the sable sons of laughter and song grasp these treasures, all that remains of the Southern village negro of to-day will be a few faint sketches in Fiction’s beautiful temple of dreams. E. K. Means. vi vii viii ix CONTENTS PAGE Foreword iii The Late Figger Bush 1 Hoodoo Eyes 39 The Art of Enticing Labor 72 The Cruise of the Mud Hen 92 Two Sorry Sons of Sorrow 127 Monarch of the Manacle 186 All is Fair 214 Hoodoo Face 274 x xi ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE “Boo-hoo,” Scootie Wailed. “Aw! Shut Up,” the Old Man Snapped Frontispiece “I’se de Braying Jack-ass of Georgia, an’ no Nigger in Tickfall Cain’t Comb my Mane” 58 “Colonel Gaitskill Telephoned me that your Pockets Were Full of Money” 86 When the Boat Stopped 110 Mustard Proceeded to Paint him Red 158 Skeeter Went down the Street at Full Speed 208 The Pie-faced Sorrel with the Snake-bitten Leg 218 The “Revun” Vinegar Atts Began his Sermon. 328 xii1 The Late Figger Bush. Figger Bush did not look like a man who was about to die; if anything, he looked like one who ought to be killed. He was a scarecrow sort of a negro, with ragged, flapping clothes. His coal-black face formed a background for a little, stubby, shoe-brush mustache, and Figger thought that mustache justified his existence in the world. He had not much use for his coconut head except to support a battered wool hat and grow a luxuriant crop of kinky hair. He had an insuperable aversion to all sorts of work. None of these things indicated that Figger was about to die; in fact, they showed that he was enjoying life. The only thing that indicated an unusual condition in Figger was the fact that he was now walking down the middle of the road with rapid and ever-lengthening steps, glancing from side to side, and grumbling aloud to himself. “I gotta find dat Skeeter Butts an’ find him quick,” he muttered. “Nothin’ like dis ain’t never happen to me befo’, an’ nobody cain’t ’lucidate on my troubles like Skeeter kin.” A high, cackling laugh, accompanied by a hoarse bellow of laughter, floated to him upon the hot August breeze, and Figger ceased his grumbling and began to chuckle. “I gits exputt advices now,” he mumbled. “Skeeter am talkin’ sociable wid de Revun Vinegar Atts.” On top of the hill in front of the Shoofly church, Figger found his two friends resting under the shade of a chinaberry tree. Skeeter Butts, the little, yellow barkeeper at the Hen-Scratch saloon, had the back of his chair propped against the trunk of the tree, his heels hung in the rungs of the chair in front, and looked like a jockey mounted upon a bony, sway-backed horse. Vinegar Atts, the fat, bald-headed, moon-faced pastor of the Shoofly church, sat on one chair, rested his feet on another, and had his massive arms outspread upon the backs of yet two other chairs. He looked like a pot-bellied buzzard trying to fly upside down and backward. “Come up, Figger!” Vinegar howled, as he kicked the chair, on which his feet rested, toward him. “Take a seat, take a set-down, rest yo’ hat, spit on de flo’—make yo’se’f at home!” Figger picked up the chair, placed it back where Atts could rest his feet upon it again, and sat down upon the ground, interlocking the fingers of both hands and nursing his bent knees. “You been cuttin’ out chu’ch recent. How come?” Vinegar bellowed. “Religium don’t he’p a po’ nigger like me,” Figger responded gloomily. “Dat’s a fack,” Atts agreed promptly. “Religium is got to hab somepin to ketch holt on an’ you ain’t nothin’.” “Whut ails you?” Skeeter inquired, looking at Figger intently. “You ain’t look nachel to me some way.” Figger sighed deeply, then executed a feeble grin. “A nigger man is comin’ to see me, Skeeter,” he explained, “an’ I don’t need him.” “Who’s a-comin’?” “Popsy Spout.” “Whar’s he been at?” Vinegar asked. “Yallerbam’,” Figger told him. There was a moment of silence while the two waited for Figger to tell them all about it. But if Figger ever did anything he had to be pushed along. “I don’t see nothin’ so powerful bad in dat,” Skeeter snapped, impatient at the delay. “Popsy Spout is comin’ from Yalabama—well?” “It’s dis way,” Figger explained, slapping at the ground with his battered wool hat to give emphasis to his speech. “Popsy Spout is my gran’pap on my mammy’s side. My mammy died soon an’ Popsy raised me up. He always toted a big hick’ry cane an’ he raised me pretty frequent. One day he promise me a whalin’ an’ I snooped ten dollars outen his money-bag an’ skunt out fer Tickfall. Dat was twenty year ago.” “You reckin’ Popsy is comin’ to colleck up?” Skeeter snickered. 2 3 4 “Naw, suh. I figger dat Popsy is gittin’ ole an’ lonesome an’ tuck up a notion to come an’ pay me a little visit.” “How long will he stay on?” Skeeter asked. “I kinder think he thinks he’ll stay on till he dies,” Figger announced in tragic tones, as he produced a soiled letter and held it out to Skeeter. “Read dis, an’ see kin you find any yuther hopes in whut he do say.” Skeeter took the letter out of the envelope and read it aloud, giving the peculiar African pronunciation to the words as he spoke them: “Dear Figger: Dis letter will kotch you jes’ befo’ I gits offen de train at Tickfall. I wus raised an’ bawn in de Little Mocassin Swamp, an’ I wants to come home an’ live wid you till I die. I needs somebody of my kinnery aroun’ so I won’t git so lonesome. Good-by. I’m comin’ powerful soon. Popsy Spout.” Skeeter handed the letter back with a look of deep sympathy and pity. “Bad luck, Figger,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “You cain’t mo’ dan half suppote yo’se’f, an’ now you done got a ready- made gran’pap to suppote. A nigger kin git mighty ole an’ deef, but he always hears de dinner-horn.” “Dat’s right,” Figger wailed. “Whut muss I do?” “Don’t start squealin’ like a pig kotch in a gap,” Skeeter snapped, as he passed around a box of cigarettes. “Smoke one of dese an’ ease down yo’ mind a little.” “Whut muss I do?” Figger wailed again. “Vinegar, you ax ’terrogations while I medjertates,” Skeeter proposed, as he leaned his chair back against the tree. “When did you perceive dis here Popsy las’, Figger?” Vinegar inquired. “More’n twenty year ago.” “Whut do he look like?” “He looks like a black nigger. I s’pose he’s bleached out some in de las’ twenty year.” “Is you ever heard any word from him befo’?” “Naw, suh. Word ain’t been sont.” “How do Popsy know you is still livin’?” Vinegar inquired. “Huh!” Skeeter Butts grunted, as he suddenly sat up and slapped his hand upon his knee. “Dat’s de very idear I needs!” “Whut?” Vinegar asked. “Figger Bush will be dead when Popsy comes,” Skeeter snickered. “Dead an’ buried!” “Not ef I kin he’p it!” Figger announced, as he rose to his feet with a frightened air. “You got to ketch a nigger fust befo’ you kin dead an’ bury him.” “Set down, Figger!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Yo’ gran’pap on yo’ mammy’s side didn’t inherit you no brains! Dis here is a good plan to git you out of trouble.” “Tell it to me slow,” Figger begged, as he resumed his seat on the ground. “I don’t favor no plan havin’ a dead Figger Bush in it.” “Listen, Figger!” Skeeter urged. “I wants you to pick out a nice-lookin’ nigger gal whut could play like she wus yo’ widder.” “Suttinly,” Figger grinned, beginning to see the light. “Scootie Tandy could play widder. She’s been one about two year—all de nigger mens run after her tryin’ to pussuade her to fergit her spite an’ marry agin. I could git her to play widder.” “Dat’ll put an eend to yo’ mis’ry,” Skeeter cackled. “Go tell Scootie all yo’ trouble, ax Scootie to meet de train dat Popsy comes on, an’ bust de sad news to him dat you is dead an’ buried!” 5 6 “Mebbe Popsy won’t b’lieve her,” Figger objected. “Me an’ Vinegar will back her up in dat tale,” Skeeter assured him. “De revun elder won’t mind stretchin’ de blanket a little fer de sake of savin’ a friend. Ain’t dat so, Revun?” “Dat’s so!” Vinegar declared. “My life job an’ my callin’ is savin’ niggers!” “Whar muss I git to while I’m bein’ dead?” Figger inquired. “Go fishin’,” Skeeter grinned. “Fishin’ is de best spote on yearth fer de livin’ an’ de dead!” “How long am I got to stay dead?” Figger asked. “When de ole man Popsy hears tell dat you is gone hence an’ ain’t no mo,’ he’ll take his foot in his hand an’ ramble back to Yalabam’,” Vinegar rumbled. “Dat’ll be yo’ sing to come fo’th from de dead!” Figger put on his battered hat and stood up. He asked pleadingly: “Couldn’t you loant a dead man half a dollar, Skeeter?” “Whut you want wid it?” Skeeter snapped. “I figger dat a real live corp’ oughter git a hair-cut an’ a shave!” Figger chuckled. “Dat’s right,” Skeeter laughed, as he handed out the money. “You scoot over an’ see Scootie right now!” Scootie Tandy was a fat, good-natured young woman, who wore red head-rags, wrapped up her kinky hair with strings to give it a better kink, and had no higher object in life than to be regular at her meals. She had worn deep mourning for over a year for a worthless husband whose death had been advantageous to her in that it gave her an excuse for doing even less work than she had done when he was living. “It ’pears like I ain’t been well an’ strong sence Jim died an’ lef’ me to ’tend to eve’ything,” she whined at the kitchen doors of the white people, to aid her plea for food and old clothes. Figger believed he was in love with Scootie, and Scootie made eyes at him, but Skeeter said they were not thinking about marrying. He declared they were merely watching each other to see which could live longest without work and without landing in jail for vagrancy. “Scootie,” Figger began, “you don’t mind playin’ a widder, does you?” “Naw,” Scootie told him. “Men is a heap mo’ int’rusted in deir minds ’bout widders dan dey is ’bout gals, pervidin’ ef de widders ain’t got no nigger chillun crawlin’ on de cabin flo’.” “Would you mind bein’ my widder?” Figger inquired hesitatingly. “I’d like it,” Scootie laughed. “Is you aimin’ to die real soon?” “I passes off powerful soon,” Figger grinned. Then Figger told her of his troubles, and explained what he wanted her to do. “My ole gran’pap won’t hab no easy job attachin’ hisse’f onto me,” Figger announced in conclusion. “Dis here corp’ is gwine keep movin’ his remainders somewhar else.” “Whut train is Popsy comin’ on?” Scootie asked. “He’ll be here on de dinner-time train, I think,” Figger replied. “You go down an’ meet dat train, an’ ef he comes you pass him back onto de caboose an’ tell him to keep trabbelin’.” “When muss I tell him you died?” Scootie asked. “Gwine on a year!” Figger suggested. “Whut did you die of?” “Two buckles on de lungs,” Figger told her. 7 8 “Wus you sick very long?” Scootie asked. “Yes’m. Tell him I wus feelin’ feeble an’ not able to wuck none fer about fo’teen year, which is how come I ain’t leave no property,” Figger declared. “Ain’t you got no picture of yo’se’f fer me to set on de mantelpiece an’ cry at?” Scootie asked. “Suttinly,” Figger said, as he slipped his hand into his coat-pocket and brought out a cheap photograph. “Dis am de best koodak I’m ever had took—it shows off my mustache so good! Don’t dem lip-whiskers look nachel?” “Dey shore do sot off yo’ face,” Scootie replied, as she studied the photograph and considered all the information Figger had given her. Finally Scootie asked: “S’pose Popsy don’t b’lieve all dese tales?” “’Tain’t no danger,” Figger answered. “I’ll make myse’f absent, an’ Skeeter an’ Vinegar will back you up.” “All right, Figger,” Scootie grinned. “I’ll gib you a lift-out. I don’t mind succulatin’ de repote dat you is dead; some folks will be dum glad to hear it!” “Bein’ dead ain’t such awful bad luck,” Figger laughed. “I done promise de white folks to do about fawty jobs of wuck, an’ dem whites keeps me a dodgin’ like a bumpin’-bug. Furdermo’, I owes a heap money in dis here town whut I don’t never expeck to pay back, an’ my tongue gits dry tellin’ how soon I hopes to wuck an’ make some cash money. Bless Gawd, dead niggers like me cain’t wuck an’ cain’t pay—dey got to charge all my debts to de dust an’ let de rain settle ’em!” “My stomick tells me dat de dinner-time train is mighty nigh here, Figger,” Scootie said. “You better git away an’ let me dress up accawdin’ to dis here sad succumstance.” “Dis is whar I disappears complete, Scootie,” Figger grinned, as he stepped off the porch. “I hope you won’t slight yo’ mournin’ fer me atter I’m gone.” Then Scootie prepared herself to meet the train—a black dress, black gloves, a long black veil over a purple and yellow hat with a poll-parrot on it, a palm-leaf fan, the edge appropriately encircled with black braid, and a white handkerchief with a broad border. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled with satisfaction. “I’s gwine wear mournin’ all my life,” she announced to herself. “It makes my complexion mo’ fair.” When the train pulled into the station, Scootie was standing near the negro coach, looking for a man who resembled Figger’s description of Popsy Spout as he remembered his grandfather after twenty years. Only one negro passenger got off, and Scootie merely glanced at him and waited for some one else. When the train pulled out, Scootie turned, and the negro passenger was standing close beside her on the platform. “Is you lookin’ fer somebody?” Scootie asked. “I knows eve’ybody in dis town.” Then Scootie got a surprise. “Yes’m,” the man answered, in a weak, tired voice. “I wus expeckin’ Figger Bush.” Scootie reeled back and glared at the speaker with popping eyeballs. He stood before her, over six feet tall and as straight as an Indian. His face was as black as new tar and was seamed by a thousand tiny wrinkles, written all over with the literature of life and experience. His long hair was as white as milk, and his two wrinkled and withered hands rested upon a patriarchal staff nearly as tall as himself. On his head was a stove-pipe hat, bell-shaped, the nap long since thrown off like an outworn garment, and the top of the hat was as red as a brick from exposure to the weather. An old, faded, threadbare and patched Prince Albert coat swathed his emaciated form like a bath-robe. Instantly Scootie knew that this man belonged to that vanishing race of negroes who were the glory and the pride of the South in the ante-bellum days. They cling like vines around the old homesteads, cared for and protected by men who were once their white masters, and when they die, more white people attend their funerals than members of their own race. Only one thing denoted that age had left a blight upon the dignified form of Popsy Spout, and that mark was in his eyes: the vacant, age-dimmed stare of second childhood, indicating that reason no longer sat regnant upon the crystal throne of the intellect, looking out of the windows of the soul. “I’s powerful glad to meet a young gal like you, honey,” he said in the high falsetto of old age. “Figger is missed 9 10 11 12 meetin’ me some way. He always wus a mos’ onreliable piccaninny. I’s had a long trip. My name is Popsy Spout.” This was Scootie’s cue to turn on the water-works. She brought out her black-bordered handkerchief and began to weep. “I wus lookin’ fer you, Popsy,” she sobbed. “Poor Figger Bush is dead an’ I’s his widder!” “How’s dat—which?” the old man quavered. “Dead! Plum’ dead—dead an’ buried!” Scootie wailed. “Did he die layin’ down?” the old man asked. “Yes, suh. He died nachel.” “Huh!” the old man snorted. “Dat suttinly is strange. I never predick no sech come-out fer Figger—how come de white folks didn’t shoot him or hang him? He shore deeserved it!” “Boo-hoo!” Scootie wailed. “Aw, shut up!” the old man snapped, in high, shrill tones. “Figger didn’t never amount to nothin’ nohow. I know it’s all fer de best, an’ ef you had de sense Gawd gibs to a crazy geese, you’d be dum glad he’s a deader!” “Mebbe so, suh,” Scootie mourned, “but I shore miss him a-plenty.” “Of co’se!” Popsy exploded. “You miss de stomick-ache, too, but ’tain’t resomble to howl because you ain’t got it. It’s proper to miss pestications but ’tain’t good sense to mourn deir loss. How long is Figger been dead?” “’Bout a year,” Scootie sobbed. “By jacks!” Popsy snorted. “Been dead a year an’ here you is all blacked up in mournin’ like a bucket of tar. Shut up! Whut you so crazy ’bout a dead nigger fer?” Thus importuned, Scootie saw that she was wasting her tears on Figger as far as Popsy was concerned. “Whar is you gwine now?” Scootie inquired in a voice which showed that she had found comfort. “I’s aimin’ to ooze along over to yo’ house an’ git my dinner,” Popsy told her. “Which way does we start?” “Figger would shore be mighty sorry to miss yo’ visit ef he wus alive an’ knowed about it,” Scootie remarked as she led the way to her cabin. “’Tain’t so!” Popsy snapped, as he strode along beside her, resting one hand upon her fat shoulder and the other on his staff. “Dat nigger ain’t never missed nothin’ but a good whalin’—I promised him a lickin’ twenty year ago an’ he runned away. He ain’t never come back.” This speech had a sing-song swing to it, as if it was a complaint which he had repeated for many years whenever Figger’s name was mentioned. “He ain’t never come back to git his wallupin’,” the old man repeated. Scootie snickered. “Dat sounds right!” Popsy applauded, patting the fat shoulder which supported one of his withered hands. “’Tain’t no use to shed tears over Figger. Livin’ or dead, he don’t deeserve nothin’ but a big bust-out laugh.” “I’s glad you feels dat way about it, Popsy,” Scootie chuckled. “You shore has cheered me up some an’ eased my mind a-plenty.” “You got any fryin’-size chickin at yo’ cabin?” Popsy asked. “Yep. I kin cook ’em so you’ll wanter die wid a chicken bone in yo’ hand, too,” Scootie told him. “An’ as fur my hot biskits—you’ll want one of my hot biskits carved on yo’ tombstone!” “Kin you affode to keep ice-water?” “Yep. A driver on de ice-wagon is courtin’ me servigerous an’ he slips me a free chunk eve’y day.” “Dat’s good sense,” Popsy told her. “Is you got any objections to my chawin’ all de eatin’ terbacker I wants to?” “Naw, suh,” Scootie giggled. “Figger chawed.” 13 14 “Does you maintain a jug?” Popsy wanted to know. “I does; an’ it’s passable full, too.” “I bet it splashed pretty low when Figger wus livin’,” Popsy bleated. “When I wus fotchin’ up dat piccaninny he jes’ nachelly graduated to’des a jug like all de buzzards in de settlemint comin’ to a mule’s fun’ral!” “Dar’s my cabin—over yon.” Scootie pointed. The walk had wearied the old man, and it required all of Scootie’s strength to lift him up the steps to a rocking-chair upon the porch. She brought him out a turkey-wing fan, a twist of chewing-tobacco, and a pipe which had belonged to her deceased husband. Then she thought of Figger’s photograph, and she handed that to him. But the aged man’s mind had suddenly gone blank because of his physical weakness, exhausted by his long walk. “Whut you gimme dis here little card fer, Scootie?” he asked perplexedly. “Dat’s a picture of Figger, Popsy!” Scootie exclaimed, turning it so he could see the face. “Figger who?” Popsy inquired. “Figger Bush, Popsy,” Scootie told him in a patient tone. “Yo’ little Figger—my dead husbunt—don’t you remember Figger!” “Is dat so?” the old man asked in uncertain tones. He held the card up and looked at the photograph for a long time. “Whut you think about him, Popsy?” Scootie asked. “Dat dead nigger’s face an’ head shore growed strong on hair an’ whiskers,” Popsy quavered, as he laid the photograph in the crown of his upturned stove-pipe hat, “like a damp marsh—don’t grow nothin’ but rank grass!” “Dat was de way Figger wus,” Scootie laughed. “His head wus shore kinder soft an’ oozy.” “When is we gwine git our dinner, Scootie?” the old man demanded. “Right now!” Scootie told him. “All right!” Popsy said, as he leaned back in his chair. “You call me when she’s ready. Feed me chicken an’ hot biskits an’ ice-water—lemme taper off wid a dram an’ a leetle nap—den I want you to lead me to de bank whar Marse Tommy Gaitskill stays at. Lawd! Lawd! I ain’t sot my eyes on little Tommy fer fifty year!” At two o’clock that afternoon Scootie conducted Popsy Spout through the door of the Tickfall National Bank, down a corridor in the rear of the big vault, and knocked upon a door which bore in dainty gold lettering the word: “President.” In response to a voice within she opened the door and pushed Popsy Spout forward. Colonel Tom Gaitskill sat beside a table in a swivel chair, a tall, handsome man with the air of a soldier, ruddy-faced, white-haired, genial, and smiling. Gaitskill’s fine eyes took him in with a photographic glance. The old negro stood before him, immaculately neat, though his garments were ragged and time-worn. Dignity sat upon his aged form like virtue upon a venerable Roman senator. Indeed, there flashed through the banker’s mind the thought that men like this one who stood before him might have sat in the Carthaginian council of war and planned the campaign which led young Hannibal to the declivities of the Alps where his horde of Africans hung like a storm-cloud while Imperial Rome trembled with fear behind the protection of her walls. Then fifty years rolled backward like a scroll. Gaitskill saw a blood-strewn battlefield torn with shot and shell; he saw clouds of smoke, black, acrid, strangling to the throat, rolling over that field as fogs blow in from the sea; he saw a tall, young, black man emerge from such a pall of smoke carrying a sixteen-year-old boy dressed in the bloody uniform of a Confederate soldier. The young soldier’s arms and legs dangled against the negro’s giant form as he walked, stepping over the slippery, shot-plowed ground. He saw the negro stagger with his burden to an old sycamore tree and lay the inanimate form upon the ground at its roots, composing the limbs of the boy with beautiful tenderness; then he saw the negro straighten up and gather into his giant paws a broken branch of a tree which two men could hardly have handled. Waving this limb at the creeping pall of smoke, he screamed like a jungle beast, and whooped: “You dam’ Yanks, 15 16 17 keep away from dis little white boy—you done him a-plenty—he’s dead!” Gaitskill stood up and stepped forward. He held out a strong white hand, clasping the palsied brown paw of Popsy Spout. No white man ever received a warmer greeting, a more cordial welcome than this feeble black man, aged, worn, tottering through the mazy dreamland of second childhood. Unnoticed, Scootie Tandy walked to a window and seated herself. The two old men sat down beside the table and Scootie listened for two hours to reminiscences which went back over half a century. Frequently Popsy Spout’s mind wandered, and Gaitskill gave him a gentle stimulant of liquor, as thoughtful of the darky’s waning strength as a courtier would be of the comfort of a king. “How old are you now, Popsy?” Gaitskill smiled, after they had talked of old times. “I’s sebenty year old—gwine on a hundred.” “Do you really expect to live that long?” Gaitskill asked. “Yes, suh, ef de white folks takes good keer of me,” Popsy answered. He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bulky package, tied up with many pieces of many-colored string. “Dat’s my money, Marse Tommy. Please unwrop it an’ count it out loud fer me.” Gaitskill poured the currency and coins upon the table and with a money-handler’s expert ease, he counted it aloud, announcing the total in about a minute: “One thousand dollars!” Scootie Tandy gasped like a woman who had been under water for about five minutes and had just come up, but neither of the men noticed her. Popsy Spout hesitated a minute, scratched his snow-white hair, and looked at the neat piles of money with an air of perplexity. “Isn’t that correct?” Gaitskill asked. “Yes, suh, dat’s c’reck,” Popsy said uncertainly. “Dat’s de same number I got when I counted it, but somepin is powerful strange ’bout dat money.” “What’s the trouble?” Gaitskill asked. “You counted it so quick, Marse Tommy!” “Well—I counted it right, didn’t I?” “Yes, suh, but—I reckin’ it’s all right, Marse Tommy. But, you see, it tuck me five whole days to count dat money an’ it wus de hardest wuck I ever done—I sweated barrels of sweat! It ’peared like a whole big pile, when I counted it. But ef I spends it as quick as you counted it, ’twon’t las’ me till I kin walk outen dis here bank!” “I understand,” Gaitskill smiled. “But you don’t want to spend this money. How long did it take you to accumulate it?” “Fawty year,” Popsy told him. “Bad times comes frequent to a nigger, an’ I wanted to save a leetle ahead.” “The idea is to take as long spending it as you did accumulating it,” Gaitskill said. “In that case, it will last you until you have passed one hundred.” “Yes, suh, dat’s de properest way to do,” Popsy agreed. “Dat’s why I fotch dis money to you. Kin you keep it fer me?” “Certainly. That’s what this bank is for.” “Marse Jimmy Gaitskill over in Burningham—his bank paid me int’rust prannum on dat money,” Popsy said. “I’ll pay you interest per annum, too,” Gaitskill smiled, well knowing that his brother had supported Popsy Spout for half a century. “How much money will you need to live on each year?” “I kin git along on ’bout ten dollars a month, Marse Tommy—wid de clothes an’ vittles dat de white folks gimme. I kin save a little out of dat to ’posit back in de bank fer rainy days.” “That’s one hundred and twenty dollars a year with clothes and food,” Gaitskill laughed. “Some of the bank’s patrons 18 19 20 would like to get that much interest per annum.” “Yes, suh. Marse Jimmy Gaitskill specified dat my nigger money drawed powerful int’rust outen his bank.” “You can come here and draw ten dollars every month,” Gaitskill said, and he picked up a card and wrote a few words upon it. “Dat’ll fix me fine, Marse Tommy. I kin live scrumpshus on dat.” “Where are you going to live?” “I ain’t got nowhar yit,” Popsy said. “Would you like to live in the log cabin where you lived fifty-five years ago?” Gaitskill inquired. “Whar I married at? Whar me an’ Ca’lline live happy till all us boys went off to de war? Whar you an’ me an’ Marse Jimmy an’ little Hinry useter roast goobers in de hot ash?” Popsy asked eagerly. “The very same,” Gaitskill answered softly. “With the big pecan tree still standing before it, and the big stone door- step where we boys cracked the nuts.” Popsy Spout rose to his feet and bowed like some aged patriarch standing in the presence of a king. His high, quavering voice sobbed like the wailing of a child: “Marse Tommy, de Gaitskill fambly is de top of de heap fer kindness an’ goodness to dis pore ole nigger!” He sank back into his chair, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I guess so,” Gaitskill said, and his voice was so soft that each word was like a caress. “We all remember Henry.” “Dat’s so, suh,” Popsy said, suddenly straightening his bent and quivering shoulders. “Marse Jimmy is told me frequent ’bout you an’ him gwine up dar an’ findin’ Hinry under dat sycamo’ tree whar I buried him at. I’s glad you fotch him back home an’ buried him wid his own folks.” “Yes, we’ll walk out to his grave together some day,” Gaitskill murmured. He rose and walked to the window. He looked out for a moment, then turned and handed Popsy the card on which he had written a few minutes before. “I’ll see you often, Popsy,” he said. “Your old cabin is still at the foot of the hill by the old spring. It’s unoccupied— move in as soon as you please.” “Whut is dis, Marse Tommy?” Popsy asked, as he looked curiously at the folded paper. “It’s an order on my store for food,” Gaitskill said. “You can draw some groceries every Saturday night. That’s part of the interest per annum, you know.” “Bless Gawd!” Popsy Spout quacked. “Ten dollars a month wages an’ reg’lar rations eve’y Saddy night! You shore is a noble white man, Marse Tommy! Come on, Scootie. Us’ll git gwine befo’ we gits happy an’ gits to shoutin’ an’ bust up all de furnisher in dis white man’s bank!” “My Lawd, Figger Bush!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, as his friend entered the Hen-Scratch saloon. “You look like a skint mule.” “I done disguised myse’f!” Figger grinned as he took off his battered wool hat. Figger’s famous shoe-brush mustache was gone, and his head was shaved until it was as smooth and slick as a black piano key. “Whut you did yo’se’f so funny fer?” Skeeter demanded, as Figger smiled and revealed a row of teeth like new tombstones. “I decided to stay in town an’ be a corp’,” Figger explained, “so I had myse’f fixed up so dat not even my widder would know me.” “Is you seed Popsy yit?” Skeeter asked. “Yep. I hid behime de cornder of de deppo when de train trundled in, an’ Popsy dismounted off. Scootie cried an’ 21 22 tuck on consid’able, an’ I wus plum’ satisfied wid de results.” “Did Popsy ’pear much broke up?” Skeeter inquired. “I couldn’t tell ’bout dat,” Figger chuckled. “Scootie tuck him to her cabin fer dinner an’ I seed ’em walkin’ aroun’ town—I s’pose dey is huntin’ fer my grave.” “How do bein’ a corp’ feel like—so fur?” Skeeter snickered. “’Tain’t so bad,” Figger remarked. “It mought be better ef de town would take a notion to gib me a fust-class fun’ral. Of co’se, de Tickfall quawtette would hab to sing, an’ I’s de male serpranner in dat quawtette. It would be a real nice somepin new fer a corp’ to sing at his own fun’ral.” “Mebbe us could git de Nights of Darkness to hold a lodge of sorrer on you,” Skeeter cackled. “Ef dey does, I wants to sing my new solo ’bout ‘Locked in de stable wid de sheep,’” Figger announced. “Whut about de death ben’fit?” Skeeter inquired. “Is you gwine apply fer dat?” “Naw,” Figger laughed. “Ef de cormittee ’vestigates an’ repotes me dead, dey kin gib dat ben’fit to Popsy.” At this point the green-baize doors of the saloon were pushed open and Scootie Tandy blew in quivering with excitement. “Whut’s up, Scootie?” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Gawd pity you, Figger!” Scootie howled in tragic tones. “You made a awful mistake in gwine dead so suddent!” “Which way?” Figger asked in a frightened voice. “I went to de bank wid Popsy Spout an’ found out dat Popsy an’ Marse Tom Gaitskill is kinnery!” Scootie gushed forth. “Hear dat, now!” Skeeter exclaimed in a voice of wonder. “Popsy gib Marse Tom a wad of money dat it took Popsy five days to count!” Scootie ranted. “Oh, my Lawd!” Figger wailed. “Marse Tom gib Popsy one hundred an’ twenty dollars int’rust prannum on his money, an’ a awder on de sto’-house fer reg’lar rations, an’ a cabin to live in!” Scootie squalled. “My gawsh!” Figger bleated in dismay. “I done busted a egg on my own doorstep an’ hoodooed my own se’f!” “Dat’s whut you done, Figger!” Scootie howled. “I tole Popsy real prompt dat he needed a nuss an’ housekeeper in his ole age, an’ as Figger’s widder I wus lawfully ’lected to dat job, an’ he tuck me up right now!” “Oh-huh!” Figger grunted in despair. “Me an’ Popsy is gwine move in de ole log hut behime Marse Tom’s house to-morrer,” Scootie exulted. “Ten dollars per month an’ reg’lar vittles, chicken an’ pie—I won’t never hab to wuck no more.” “Lawdymussy!” Figger sighed. “Good-by, niggers!” Scootie exclaimed in a happy voice. “I won’t never reckernize you-alls no mo’—I draws a pension!” She swept out of the house and left two men struck speechless by the information she brought. A moment later they were interrupted again. Vinegar Atts plowed through the swinging doors, puffing like a steam- boat and sweating like an ice-pitcher. “Whar kin I find Brudder Popsy Spout, Skeeter?” he bellowed. “I wants to ’vite him to jine de Shoofly chu’ch an’ set heavy in de amen cornder. Dat’s de biggest nigger whut ever come to dis town. Word is sont out dat he old-soldiered wid de Gaitskills—fit wid de white folks! I needs him in my chu’ch!” Neither Skeeter nor Figger made a reply. Their air of tragedy silenced Vinegar Atts, and he crept forward on tiptoe to where the two men were sitting, smoking cigarettes and sighing. When Vinegar reached a point, where he could see the face of Figger Bush, he jumped as if he had seen a ghost. “My—good—gosh, Figger!” Vinegar wailed in his siren-whistle voice. “You done suicided yo’se’f! Took five days to 23 24 25 count his money—got it in de bank fetchin’ int’rust—livin’ in his own cabin an’ drawin’ rations—an’ you is de only blood kin of Tickfall’s leadin’ nigger sitson an’ you—is—dead!” “Tell me whut to do, Revun?” Figger wailed. “I ain’t got time, Figger!” Atts bawled. “I got to tote a Christyum greetin’ an’ welcome to dat noble nigger man!” Vinegar Atts went out of the saloon with the rolling walk of a big bear. “Tell me whut to do, Skeeter!” Figger wailed. “Search me!” Skeeter exclaimed. “’Tain’t no trouble fer a nigger to die—dat comes nachel. But when a nigger tries to come to life an’ make folks b’lieve it—Lawdy!” “I’s gwine right down an’ see Popsy!” Figger announced with sudden determination. “I’ll tell him dat Scootie is been lyin’ to him all de time. I kin prove by Marse Tom an’ all de white folks dat I ain’t never been dead a-tall!” “I hopes you luck, Figger!” Skeeter exclaimed in a tone which indicated that he considered such an enterprise futile. Figger lost no time in getting to the cabin where Scootie lived. He found Popsy sitting upon the porch, smoking a corn-cob pipe which had been the property of Scootie’s deceased husband, and languidly slapping at his face with a turkey-wing fan. His stove-pipe hat rested upon the floor at his feet and contained a big red handkerchief. “Howdy, Popsy!” Figger greeted him cordially, holding out his hand. “Don’t you reckomember me?” The old man removed his pipe from his mouth, rested his turkey-wing fan upon his lap, reached for his long patriarchal staff as if he were about to rise; then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Figger a long time. “Naw, suh, I ain’t never seed yo’ favor befo’,” he quavered. “I’s little Figger,” Figger informed him ingratiatingly. “Little Figger is dead,” Popsy answered, looking at Bush with faded eyes, in which the light of doubt and suspicion and a little fear was growing. “I lives wid little Figger’s widder.” “Dat’s a mistake, Popsy,” Figger protested. “I ain’t died yit. Scootie’s been lyin’ to you ’bout me.” The old man leaned over and fumbled in the crown of his stove-pipe hat. He brought out his big red handkerchief, and slowly unwrapped the photograph which Scootie had given him when he first entered her home, a photograph of a negro with a woolly head and a shoe-brush mustache. Handing this to Figger, he asked sharply: “Does you look like dat nigger in dat photygrapht?” “Naw, suh,” Figger replied with evident reluctance. “Dat’s de little Figger Bush I mourns,” Popsy said. “Dat’s Scootie’s dead husbunt. You ain’t look like him a bit—you look like a picked geese!” “I’s de very same man, Popsy!” Figger wailed in desperation. “Only but I done had my hair an’ mustache cut off.” “I don’t believe it!” Popsy declared in positive tones. “I raised dis here Figger Bush, an’ I knows he never earnt enough money in his dum lazy life to commit a shave an’ a hair-cut!” “O Lawdy, whut muss I do?” Figger wailed. “Git away from dis cabin an’ don’t never show yo’se’f here no mo’!” the old man howled. “I wouldn’t b’lieve you wus Figger Bush ef you sweared on de Bible an’ all de twelve opossums!” Popsy pounded upon the floor of the porch with the end of his long staff. “O Scootie!” he called. “Git outen dat kitchen an’ come here a minute.” Hope flamed up in the heart of Figger. He knew that no one could convince Popsy that he was not dead more certainly than the woman who pretended to be his widow. Scootie came out upon the porch and gazed with popping eyes at Figger Bush. “Is dis here nigger yo’ dead husbunt?” Popsy snapped, pointing a palsied finger at Figger. 26 27 28