“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 re?nforcements, 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 ai............