“I see!” Rouke exclaimed. “Set that table back a little—that’s it! Now you wedding guests come in and stand behind that table—that’s right! Now ready—rehearse!”
The rehearsal was perfect.
“That’s fine!” Rouke exclaimed.
“Naw, suh, ’tain’t!” Sour Sudds growled. “Don’t de preacher be allowed to say no words?”
“Sure!” Rouke told him, “but it is not necessary in a rehearsal!”
“Now, I tells you dis:” Sour Sudds responded in belligerent tones, “when de picture is took ef Elder Atts ain’t ’lowed to say all de words jes’ like dis wus a real weddin’, I ain’t gwine hab nothin’ to do wid it!”
“He’ll say ’em all right, Sour,” Rouke assured him. “Keep your shirt on—don’t disarrange your linen! Now we’re ready for the picture! Vinegar, you marry these people just like you would in a church at a sure-enough wedding. Ready—action—go!”
Sour Sudds laid his hand upon the elbow of Reverend Vinegar Atts and the two marched into the picture. Sudds was trembling all over and his lips twitched with nervousness so great that he constantly strove to wipe the emotion away by scraping the back of his hand across his mouth.
The wedding guests moved into the picture, taking their locations behind the little writing table, and Skeeter Butts established himself in full view, his battered, swollen face—a result of the fracas at the fishing camp the day before—successfully “registering” all the emotions of pain, chagrin, anger, and sorrow at his loss of the beautiful bride.
Hitch Diamond came into the picture with the bride on his arm—or rather, by the arm. Hitch was regal in his walk and manner, and his widespread, grinning mouth demonstrated beyond a doubt that he was delighted to give the bride away; while Lalla Cordona, shy, drooping, taking embarrassed glances from side to side, sometimes giving vent to an insane snicker, was a perfect imitation of the real thing in dusky brides.
She wore the proverbial bridal veil, wore it loosely, sloppily, resembling a wet dishrag thrown over the top of a post. Her bridal dress was popped open in the back where the buttons had burst, the lace at the bottom of her skirt had been torn by her walk to the church through the weeds.
That dress had evidently been, at one time, some young lady’s evening gown, and the glossy black of Lalla’s bare shoulders and arms in the glare of the noonday sun was not only startling—it was shocking. Short white kid gloves covered the damsel’s hands, which she kept folded in maidenly modesty across her breast.
Hitch held her by the arm with the air of a policeman conducting a prisoner to the lock-up, and when he surrendered her to Sour Sudds, Sour grabbed her elbow in the same official and authoritative manner.
“Dear-ly be-lub-bed!” Vinegar Atts bawled in a voice which could be heard a mile, and whining his words with a peculiar, sing-song intonation which no other people on earth can imitate:
“Dear-ly be-lub-bed, we am gathered togedder in de sight of Gawd an’ de ’socheation of dese witness to hitch togedder dis here man an’ dis here woman in de holy bonduce of mattermony, which am a powerful good thing but ain’t by nobody to be tuck up wid sudden-like, but atter prayerful study on de wharfore an’ de outcome. Ef ary one of you niggers knows a good cause why not dey should be married, bawl out right now, or forever—hol’—yo’—peace!”
Skeeter Butts moved uneasily, opened his mouth to speak, then muttered in a low tone:
“I s’pose dis is all a play-like, but it shore looks nachelly like de plum’ real thing to me!”
After an impressive pause, Vinegar continued, addressing his remarks to the principals:
“Ef ary one of you two niggers knows any jus’ an’ lawful an’ resomble cause whyfo’ you shouldn’t git married bawl it out right now, or else forever—hereinafter—hencefo’th—hol’—yo’—peace!”
No impediment being alleged, Vinegar Atts glared at Sour Sudds and howled:
“Sour, is you gwine take dis woman to be yo’ reg’lar cotehouse wife; is you gwine buy her vittles, chop her stove wood, pack her water, tote her washings to an’ fro from de white folks’ house, an’ excusin’ all yuther female womans, hang only onto her, so long as you bofe lives, so—he’p—you—Gawd, hope you may die?”
“I is!” Sour Sudds replied.
“Laller, is you gwine take dis man to be you’ reg’lar cotehouse husbunt; is you gwine cook his grub, patch his britches, clean up atter him, keep him in chawin’ terbaccer, an’ excusin’ all yuther men’s take in washin’ only fer him, an’ stick only to him so long as you bofe lives togedder, so—he’p—you—Gawd?”
“I’m are!” Lalla snickered.
“J’ine yo’ right hands!” Vinegar bellowed. “Let us pray!”
There was a moment’s silence, then, in a tone which throbbed with indignation and rebuke, Atts said to Sour and Lalla:
“You two niggers shet yo’ eyes! You got to shet yo’ eyes to pray!”
“De Good Book say, ‘Watch an’ pray,’” Sour protested.
Vinegar glowered at them until they shut their eyes; having satisfied himself that they would observe the proprieties during his petition, he howled:
“Oh, Lawdymussy! Pity dese here two people whut is done united deir lives an’ deir forchines. Don’t let ’em got no deevo’ce, even if dey wants it bad! An’ I shore hopes dar won’t be no quollin’ or fussin’ or fightin’. Amen!”
“O Lord!” Peter Pellet whispered in imitation of Vinegar, as he slowly turned the crank of the camera. He spoke only loud enough for Rouke to hear: “O Lord, deliver me henceforth and forever from such a film hog as this big fat slob of a preacher!”
“March over an’ sign de obscribe!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, waving his hand toward the little writing table. “Yes make yo’ mark, niggers! I’ll tell de clerk whose marks dey am, an’ he’ll write down de names!”
When the last scribe had straightened up from the table and laid down the pen Sour Sudds snatched up the license, walked over and waved it in the face of Lalla Cordona, and in a voice which rang with triumph he exclaimed:
“Now, you slick little nigger gal! I fit an’ bled an’ died fer you at de fish camp yistiddy, an’ you throwed me down flat—but I got you jes’ de same! Dis paper is a real, reg’lar license from de cotehouse, Vinegar Atts is done said de words, de obscribe is done been signed, an’ dat picture man is got a tintype of de whole weddin’! I got you! You is my lawful cotehouse wife!”
With a low, gurgling cry which ended in a scream, Lalla Cordona staggered backward, tottered as if about to fall, stumbled with pain-stricken face toward the two men standing by the clicking camera, then covered her face with her hands and sank, sobbing, to the ground.
There was a moment of intense silence while the surprising trick sank into the dull minds of the negroes.
Then Skeeter Butts screamed like a maniac and hurled himself at Sour Sudds. The two men went down under the mighty impact, and Sour dropped the license from his hand. When they arose, Sour was struggling for his life to wrest an automatic pistol from the hands of Skeeter, while the little barkeeper, absolutely insane with fury, was fighting murderously to free the weapon and to kill.
In the midst of the struggle the hand of one of the fighters touched the trigger while the weapon was poised in the air. There were ten shots and the dangerous gun was empty!
Screaming with baffled rage, Skeeter gouged and fought and bit, but Sour was cooler and stronger, and slowly forced Skeeter back, until he had him pressed against the little writing table. In a moment Skeeter’s back would have been broken.
“Hey, dar!” Hitch Diamond bawled. “Let dat little coon alone!”
The whole mass of negroes made a forward movement toward Sudds, and the darky saw that they would tear him to pieces. Releasing Skeeter, he jumped to one side, sought for some place of flight, then ran into the Shoofly church.
With a howl like a wolf-pack the mob rushed into the church after him.
Shirley Rouke seized his extra camera, ran behind the church and set it in position just as the mob came pouring out of the rear door.
Sour was aiming for the deep woods in the rear of the church, but as he started for them he confronted Skeeter with his automatic pistol. Sour had no means of knowing whether Skeeter had reloaded his gun, so he ducked and started at full speed around the church with the mob in hot pursuit.
He dived into the church through the front door again, leaped out of a side window and started for the woods. But the mob split into two parts in the church, some of them going out of the rear door and some out of the front, and they met half-way around the Shoofly church with Sour Sudds in the middle.
Struggling, panting, fighting, finally screaming for help, Sour plunged and kicked and bit and scratched, working his way around to the front of the church again.
And there stood Lalla Cordona, her shapely hands clutched across her heaving bosom, watching the fray.
“He’p, Laller, fer Gawd’s sake! Dey’ll kill me!” Sour shrieked, with arms outstretched toward her.
It was his last word.
He went down in the whirlpool of spinning arms and legs while the mob snarled like wild hogs and tore at his prostrate body.
The sight sickened the girl and she turned away with face agonized, horror-stricken. Then the wretched negro’s prayerful plea for help galvanized her into action.
By the side of the church there was a piece of scantling about the size and length of a baseball bat. Lalla picked it up and waded into that mob like an Amazon.
Biff! the scantling struck a head and the owner of the head ceased operations and sank heavily to the ground. Biff! Biff! Biff! Like Father Time with his scythe, Lalla mowed the men down, or made such a deep impression on their minds that they were glad to retire.
At last she worked her way down to where poor Sour Sudds lay. But he did not lie there very long. Recalling his duplicity and deceit with reference to the marriage ceremony, and appalled at the dexterity with which Lalla handled her club, he rose from that spot, broke the world record for a hundred yard dash, and disappeared in the woods, still running.
Tickfall saw him no more.
Lalla turned, walked across the grass to where the marriage license lay upon the ground and picked it up.
She glanced at it, laughed, then carried it up close to the camera and held it so Rouke and Pellet could see it, and the all-seeing eye of the clicking machine might record it on the film.
It was a legal document issued by the City of New Orleans, Parish of Orleans, State of Louisiana.
It was signed and sealed by John Flournoy, Sheriff of Tickfall Parish, and an incorrigible practical joker.
It was a Dog License!
Three days later, Peter Pellet entered the Tickfall bank and found Colonel Tom Gaitskill and Sheriff John Flournoy sitting beside a desk smoking and chatting.
“Good!” Peter exclaimed. “I am sent to find both of you gentlemen. Mr. Shirley Rouke invites you down to the theater to watch a try-out of our new picture. It’s local stuff, you know, and he wants home criticism.”
“We’ll come!” Gaitskill exclaimed.
Sitting within the little theater, the two men witnessed upon the screen one of the rarest exhibitions in the world of the skill and ingenuity of a motion picture director and producer—an exhibition which caused the Gitagraft Company to make an amazing increase in Shirley Rouke’s salary and which caused the world to add an astounding laudation to his already great fame as an artist.
The picture was perfect in plot and execution, full of love, fighting, tragedy, humor, and the two great scenes were the episodes we have described at the fish camp and the wedding at the Shoofly church.
Through the picture there ran rare scenes of the Louisiana jungle with the bear and deer in their native haunts, the wild hogs of the Gaitskill hog-camp, the deep, still forests with their wide, cool lanes, the sluggish bayous winding amid rank vegetation.
Two characters moved through the story, holding the thread of the plot—Lalla Cordona and Sour Sudds, and their acting was perfect.
When the picture ended, the men were voluble in their expressions of approbation.
Mr. Shirley Rouke walked over and shook hands with Colonel Tom Gaitskill.
“Colonel,” he said earnestly, “if it had not been for your help I could never have gotten that picture. I thank you ten thousand times. Your suggestion that I take the picture without the negroes knowing it by having some one in the know to lead ’em in their stunts was the real, right dope! By George! Pete and I stalked those darkies through the swamp just like we stalked the wild animals in the African jungle. We followed them everywhere!”
“I don’t know one of those niggers in the picture,” Sheriff Flournoy said. “Who is the bridegroom in the fake wedding?”
“He’s the only good negro movie actor in the world!” Rouke informed him. “We employ him in our studio in New Orleans. He’s gone back home now.”
“What bothers me,” Gaitskill said, “is that bride in the wedding ceremony, who takes the lead in the whole picture. That woman is not a nigger!”
“Well, I guess not!” Rouke exclaimed. “She’s a Spanish Moor. She’s the highest salaried movie actress in the Gitagraft Company and has acted in our pictures all around the world. In the North she was an Esquimau, in Montana she was an Indian princess, in Tokio she was a Geisha girl, in Hong-kong she was the emperor’s daughter, and in our South Sea Island picture she took a seventy-foot dive off of a mountain crag into the ocean. She can speak every language on earth, or if she can’t she can fake it until a native would not know the diff——”
This dissertation was suddenly interrupted by a rich, sweet-toned, dramatic voice, speaking the technical word which in the moving picture world instructs the camera artist to stop action:
“Cut!”
The man whirled around and looked into the smiling face of Lalla Cordona.
She had slipped into the theater unobserved to witness the first try-out of the new picture.
She arose from her seat and advanced toward the men with all the grace and beauty of the Arabian princess that she was, garbed gloriously in the latest creations of Fifth Avenue modistes and milliners, a thing of dainty, exquisite, infatuating beauty and loveliness whose dark skin was as fine as spun silk, as delicate as cobweb, as glowing as polished ebony, and whose whole body flamed with the soul, the magnetism, the life of her.
As Rouke spoke her name introducing Colonel Gaitskill, she said:
“I beg everybody’s pardon for my rude interruption. But it’s deadly boresome to hear your own funeral encomium, don’t you think?”
“I judge from the general tenor of Mr. Rouke’s remarks that anything you do is perfectly all right,” Gaitskill laughed. Then he asked: “Where have you been stopping while in Tickfall, Miss Cordona?”
“I suppose the sheriff will put me under arrest,” she answered with a throaty, chuckling laugh, “but I have been a cook in Mr. Flournoy’s home in the last five days. In the South a black face indicates a nigger, and I knew that my only door of entrance to a white man’s home was through the kitchen.”
“Oh, Lord,” Flournoy mourned, “I’ve lost the best cook in the whole world! Tom, I was going to invite you out for a meal to show her off——”
He was interrupted by the voice of a man sobbing. The cry seemed to rack and tear the throat as if Pain had picked up the heart in red hot pincers holding the quivering flesh until it dropped the thick, black blood of agony.
They turned and saw Skeeter Butts slip out of the door of the little theater.
He had followed Lalla Cordona down the street, had entered the little theater unobserved, and had heard enough to know that all the blossoms of love in his heart had fruited into Dead Sea apples filled with ash and soot.
“Gawd!” he sighed pitifully, as he dragged his leaden feet toward the Hen-Scratch saloon, “I wish I wus a white man ’stead of a coon!”
“It cain’t be did, niggers,” Skeeter Butts announced in a tone of finality, as he lighted a new cigarette on the stub of the old one. “Dis here chu’ch is a busted onfinancial institootion.”
He leaned his hide-bottomed chair against the trunk of the chinaberry tree in the churchyard, tipped his derby hat forward until the brim was level with his eyes, and surveyed with disgust that dilapidated structure known as the Shoofly church.
“’Twon’t cost much,” the Rev. Vinegar Atts protested earnestly. “Dis chu’ch is been needin’ dem improvements fer a long time.”
“’Tain’t so,” Hitch Diamond growled. “You don’t need no ’lectric readin’ lamp to sot on yo’ pulpit. You kin read by de light over yo’ head.”
“You ain’t needin’ no fancy pulpit chair to sot on, either,” Skeeter Butts remarked.
“De springs is all busted outen de bottom of de one I’m got,” Vinegar complained. “When I sot down I feels like I’m settin’ in a bushel basket. My stomick is over on my knees an’ my foots is mighty nigh up to my chin. De price ain’t so powerful high—twenty dollars fer de settee an’ five fer de readin’ lamp. Dat don’t seem much to me.”
“Us’ll git you dem fancy decoorshuns fer Christmus, Brudder Atts,” Skeeter smiled. “Dis here is August——”
He stopped suddenly and peered down the road with great interest. A slim, black negro, dressy and citified, was picking his way along the dusty road toward the Shoofly church.
The three men adjusted their chairs so they could watch him as he came up the little hill. They noticed that he gazed down at the deep sand through gold-rimmed spectacles, that he picked places in the road which would not bury his shiny patent-leather shoes, that he exercised great care to protect his linen suit from flying particles of dust, and he carried a near-gold wrist-watch which he consulted frequently, as if he were bound to get up that hill on schedule time.
“I knows him,” Skeeter Butts whispered. “I met his ’quaintance at de deppo dis mawnin’. He blowed in wid a long-whisker white man whut is visitin’ de Revun Sentelle. Dis here new coon is callin’ hisse’f Green Trapps.”
Green sighed with relief when he reached the gate of the churchyard, and came across the lawn toward the three men with an ingratiating grin. Vinegar Atts kicked the chair on which his feet were resting toward the newcomer as an invitation to be seated.
“Mawnin’, Greenie,” Skeeter Butts greeted. “Us is been expectin’ you to look up some of yo’ own kin an’ color.”
He introduced Green to Vinegar and Hitch, passed him the cigarettes, and then waited for Green to open the conversation.
“You niggers ain’t pregaged in no bizziness discussion, I hopes,” Green remarked. “I don’t hanker to butt in.”
“’Tain’t no secret bizzness,” Skeeter replied. “Dis here Revun Atts craves a readin’ lamp an’ a pulpit chair fer his chu’ch, an’ us members don’t aspire to git him none.”
Thereupon for the enlightenment of Green Trapps, the three men repeated all the conversation and arguments which had occupied them for an hour before Green arrived. At the conclusion of the talk-fest, Skeeter Butts demanded:
“What does you think about it, Greenie?”
“I agrees wid you-all,” Green said promptly. “Vinegar needs dem great improvements, an’ de Shoofly cain’t affode to git ’em. Therefo’ you-all oughter turn yo’ minds to somepin mo’ important.”
He took off his gold spectacles, polished them carefully with a big silk handkerchief, then rubbed the shining face of his wrist-watch and finally flicked the corner of his handkerchief over his shiny shoes.
“I don’t know nothin’ more important,” Vinegar Atts grumbled in manifest disappointment.
“As de revun pastor of de Shoofly is you got a D.D. degree?” Green asked blandly.
“Got a—which?” Vinegar asked, showing the whites of his eyes.
“Is you ever took on a kawlidge-gate degree?” Green repeated.
“I done tuck ten degrees in de Nights of Darkness Lodge,” Vinegar replied. “I don’t need no mo’. De las’ one I tuck dey made me ballunce a raw egg on my bald head an’ a nigger hit it wid a paddle—ruint all my nice lodge clothes.”
“Aw, shuckins! I don’t mean dat,” Green snorted in disgust. “Ain’t you no Doctor of Dervinity? Don’t de white folks call you de Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts? Ain’t you no scholard like de Revun Dr. Sentelle an’ dem yuther white preachers?”
“Naw, suh,” Vinegar said regretfully. “Dis here pig ain’t got no curl to his tail like you mentions.”
“You had oughter git you a D.D.,” Green said with conviction.
“De Elder needs a couple of D’s,” Hitch Diamond rumbled, delighted with the idea.
“De Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts, D.D. of Dervinity, pasture of de Shoofly Mefdis Chu’ch, Tickfall, Loozanny,” Skeeter Butts vocalized, mouthing the words pompously. “Gosh! I’d gib a dollar to see de Elder dolled up like dat!”
“It’ll cost fifty dollars,” Green said quietly, looking at his wrist-watch as if he feared to miss an engagement. “I kin git one fer you fer dat many money.”
Vinegar’s face was glowing like a saint who had seen a heavenly vision.
“How come you is peddlin’ dem D.D.’s aroun’?” he asked.
“I travels wid de Revun Dr. Gilbo, pres’dent of de Silliway Female Institoot,” Green said easily. “Us come to town dis mawnin’ to intervoo some rich folks in dis town. Us don’t never run atter nobody’s money, but we makes it a p’int to go whar money is at, an’ we is powerful kind an’ high perlite to de fellers whut is got money.”
“Dat’s right,” Vinegar applauded.
“Now dis here Dr. Gilbo, he told me ef I could sell a couple of D.D.’s on dis trip to a couple deservin’ nigger peachers, he wouldn’t hab no objections. I got de papers wid me now.”
He reached into his breast pocket and brought forth a crackling sheet of parchment. The three Tickfall negroes had never seen a college diploma. Had they been able to read this one they might have been enlightened; but unfortunately for them it was written in Latin. Its mystery conferred upon it a vast importance.
Green Trapps indicated a blank space with his finger.
“All I’m got to do is to write yo’ name right dar, Revun,” he said. “Atter dat I collecks my money, passes dis here obscribe over to you, an’ de D.D. is did.”
“Sounds easy,” Vinegar said, his face aglow.
“Of co’se, niggers, dis here is white folks’ bizzness an’ us is got to speak it easy,” Green said as he rolled his parchment and replaced it in his coat pocket. “Dar ain’t many white kawlidges in dis worl’ whut D.D.’s niggers.”
He looked at his wrist-watch and rose to his feet.
“De Revun Dr. Gilbo takes two pills an’ a charcoal tablet at ’leben o’clock, niggers,” he announced. “I got to go wait on him.”
“Hol’ on, Greenie,” Hitch Diamond rumbled. “Ef we wus ter be of a mind to bestow a D.D. on Vinegar, how soon could us git de goods?”
“Colleck yo’ money up by to-night, an’ us will bestow de paper befo’ de Shoofly cong’gation tomorrer night,” Green suggested as he turned and walked away from the conference.
When Green had gone the three sat for a long time in perfect silence. Vinegar was longing and hoping for that little scrap of parchment, wondering how he could attain it. Skeeter was wishing in an indifferent way that Vinegar had an honorary degree, but he was determining in his own mind that he would purchase a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles just like Green’s. At last Hitch Diamond spoke:
“Listen to dis idear, niggers: de Nights of Darkness Lodge meets to-night. I favors axin’ all de members of de lodge to cont’ibute a few change to make up de fifty dollars an’ buy Vinegar Atts a couple of D’s.”
“Dat’s de trick, Hitchie,” Skeeter shouted. “Of co’se, de lodge is secret work an’ de white folks won’t know nothin’ about it. Dat comes up to de rules dat Green laid down.”
“I think dat’s a good notion,” Hitch mumbled.
“I favors it,” Skeeter agreed.
“Amen,” said Vinegar Atts.
The session of the Nights of Darkness Lodge proceeded quietly until the question was asked: “Is there any new business?”
Thereupon Hitch Diamond, the grand exalted ruler, rose to his feet, cleared his throat, and spoke:
“Brudders, us cullud folks of Tickfall an’ especial de members of dis lodge b’lieves in showin’ high an’ exalted salutes to people whut deserves it. I rises to pernounce dat de time is now come to show a pertickler favor to our feller brudder member, Revun Vinegar Atts.”
Vinegar arose, bowed, and sat down.
“De high exalted chaplain of dis lodge ain’t as high as he might git, an’ I aims to ax you-alls to put him whar he b’longs. We wants a preacher we kin be proud of, an’ Vinegar Atts needs a couple of D.’s to finish him off complete. I moves dat we chip in an’ buy ’em fer him.”
“Thank ’e, suh,” Vinegar arose and said, and sat down.
Hitch’s speech was not as enlightening as it should have been, and it was met with complete silence. Each member was trying to think out what Hitch meant. After a while Skeeter Butts remarked:
“I favors buyin’ a D.D. fer Vinegar, an’ I now cont’ibutes one dollars to dat puppus.”
Skeeter walked over to the altar in the middle of the lodge floor and dropped a resounding dollar upon the top. The negroes looked at the dollar with great curiosity, but they needed more light before they were willing to add any money to that contribution. After another silence, Figger Bush asked:
“Whut is dat one silver dollar fer, Skeeter?”
“To he’p buy a D.D.,” Skeeter informed him.
“Whut am a D.D.?” Bush inquired.
“It’s a—a—a kawlidge piece of paper wid writin’ on it,” Skeeter explained lamely.
“How much do she cost?” Bush persisted.
“Fifty dollars,” Skeeter told him.
A murmur of protest ran around the room. No one had the remotest idea what Skeeter was talking about, but they could all grasp the significance of fifty dollars. It was apparent that they would not favor buying anything for Vinegar Atts which cost that much money.
“I don’t ketch on to dis here foolishness,” Figger complained. “I don’t gib none of my money fer somepin I ain’t understood in my mind. I motions dat Vinegar Atts git up an’ tell us whut he wants us to git him.”
“Dar is a white man in town whut wants to make me a preachin’ doctor,” Vinegar explained. “De license cost fifty dollars an’ some of my frien’s an’ lodge brudders wants me to git it.”
“Whut does you aim to doctor—hosses?” Figger asked.
“Naw, suh, ’tain’t no medicine doctor; it’s a preachin’ doctor I wants to be, like Dr. Sentelle.”
“Huh!” Figger grunted and sank down into his seat. The mystery was too great for his feeble mind.
At that moment there was a loud knocking at the door. Then the outer guard reported:
“A stranger is outside—he ain’t got no grip or password—wants to git inside.”
“Whut mought his name be?” Hitch inquired.
“Green Trapps.”
Hitch received this announcement with joy, for now he had some one who could explain the mystery.
“De lodge will be at rest,” he announced. “Outer guard, admit Perfessor Green Trapps.”
The lodge stood up and viewed this citified negro as he walked slowly up the hall under the escort of the guard. His appearance was pleasing, and they gave him the lodge salute when he was introduced, and sat down to look at him some more.
“You is come jes’ in time, Perfessor,” Hitch Diamond bellowed. “Us is got our D.D. program in a jam, an’ we wants you to tell it to us agin, so our minds kin git clear.”
“’Tain’t hard to understan’, brudders,” Green Trapps began, as he surveyed the assembly through his gold-rimmed spectacles, and smiled at them benevolently. “De Silliway Female Institoot is got two hon’able degrees to bestow on two deservin’ preachers of de cullud race, an’ de Revun Vinegar Atts is ’lected to git one. De female institoot will make him a doctor fer fifty dollars.”
“We don’t want Vinegar made no female doctor!” Figger Bush squeaked.
“We don’t make him no female doctor,” Green explained patiently. “We makes him a D.D.—a Doctor of Dervinity.”
“Is you one of dem things you mentions?” Pap Curtain, a tall, yellow negro, asked in a snarling voice.
“Naw, suh, I ain’t no preacher. I’s wid a kawlidge. Therefo’ I’s a D.V.”
“Is dar any more D.D.’s in dis town?” Pap asked.
“Dar ain’t but one an’ he’s white,” Green replied. “His name is Revun Dr. Sentelle, D.D.”
“Dar now!” Pap Curtain exclaimed exultantly. “I think I ketch on. Dis here female kawlidge wants to fix Vinegar up like Revun Sentelle—make him sound dis way: De Revun Dr. Vinegar Atts, D.D. Is dat de notion?”
“Yes, suh,” Green grinned. “Dat’s a bird’s-eye view!”
Pap ran his hand into his capacious pocket and brought forth a silver dollar. He dropped it with a loud thump beside Skeeter’s money on the altar.
“I favors it, nigger. Less gib Vinegar all de frills!”
Hitch Diamond hastened to contribute his dollar, and Vinegar Atts followed him with two dollars.
“I’s willing’ to pay mo’ dan anybody fer whut I gits fer myse’f,” he announced happily.
Figger Bush walked forward and laid down fifty cents.
“I ain’t no scholard, brudders,” he said apologetically. “I don’t see more’n four bits wuth of good dat I’ll git outen dem D’s.”
One by one the members of the lodge advanced and contributed their bit to this honorary degree to be bestowed upon their chaplain. But silver dollars were scarce in the crowd, and fifty-cent pieces were soon exhausted and two-bit contributions were scanty and then dimes and nickels made up the rest of the pile.
“Ef eve’ybody is done his do, de inner guard will please count de remains,” Hitch announced.
Figger Bush advanced and separated the silver in neat little piles. A minute later he announced the result:
“Twenty-five dollars!”
The lodge received this statement in gloomy silence. Green Trapps sat down, took the college diploma out of his pocket and unrolled it. The sight of that precious document almost brought the tears to Vinegar’s eyes.
It was a long time before a suggestion was offered, but finally Pap Curtain spoke:
“Brudders, I’s powerful sorry dat we couldn’t make de riffle an’ fix Vinegar up right. But dese here is hard times fer niggers an’ cash money is scarce. But I rejoices dat we is raised as much as we has. Now I makes dis motion: Vinegar is been bawlin’ fer a readin’ lamp an’ a pulpit settee fer a long time. Less take dis cash money an’ ease down Vinegar’s feelin’s a little by buyin’ him de lamp an’ de settee.”
“Dat’s de notion,” a chorus of voices answered.
But Green Trapps, D.V., saw no reason why that money should be diverted from its original purpose. He sprang to his feet, waving the college diploma.
“I got a better notion dan dat, brudders,” he exclaimed earnestly. “I figgers dat Vinegar wants dis here degree. Ain’t dat so, Revun?”
“Dat’s right,” Vinegar murmured.
“Ef dat’s de case, I makes you-all dis bizziness trade: de price of a D.D. is fifty dollars. Dis lodge has raised jes’ half of dat money. Therefo’ I moves you dat dis lodge bestow de Revun Vinegar Atts wid jes’ one D!”
“Shore!” Figger Bush squeaked. “He oughter be satisfied wid one D.”
“How would dat suit you, Revun?” Hitch Diamond asked.
“Dat’ll suit fine,” Vinegar smiled, his eager eyes resting upon the parchment in Green’s hand. “Ef I kin buy de doctor part of de double D, I’s willin’ to let de Dervinity part of it slide.”
“Ever who favors bestowin’ de Revun Vinegar Atts wid one D say aye!” Hitch Diamond howled.
“Aye!” the crowd bellowed.
“I thanks you-all fer yo’ int’rust,” Green Trapps announced quietly. “We will bestow de Revun Vinegar Atts wid one D at de Shoofly chu’ch tomorrer night.”
All day long Vinegar Atts occupied himself by decorating the Shoofly church. He had festooned the building with arm-loads of long Spanish moss taken from the trees in the swamp. He had brought a wagon-load of ferns and palms and wild flowers from the fields and woods, and now as the shadows of the evening lengthened in the large, barnlike structure, he viewed the result with dissatisfaction.
“I needs dat settee an’ readin’ lamp to sot off dese here decorooshuns,” he sighed, scratching his head in perplexity. “Atter I git my D, I got to go an’ set down in a ole chair wid de bottom busted out, an’ dat ain’t doin’ it up in de right sort of style.”
He walked up and surveyed the offending chair, turned it over and looked underneath and uttered a disgusted grunt. He could make nothing out of it except what it was, a broken, dilapidated chair. Then a great idea entered his head.
“I bet de white folks is got plenty pulpit chairs an’ readin’ lamps dat dey don’t need. I’ll go out an’ beg a few.”
Ten minutes later Vinegar paused at the gate before the home of the Rev. Dr. Sentelle.
There were only two churches in Tickfall, one for the whites and one for the blacks. For nearly thirty years neither church had had a change of preachers, so that Dr. Sentelle and Vinegar Atts were old friends and workers in the Tickfall vineyard.
Dr. Sentelle was a scholar, an orator, and a cripple. All that can be comprised in the statement that the people, white and black, loved him almost to adoration, will express what he was to Tickfall.
Vinegar Atts was a squatty, pot-bellied black giant with long gorilla-like arms; he was bald except for a little tuft of hair over each ear, which made him look like a moon-faced mule wearing a blind bridle. He was not a scholar, nor a cripple. He could hang some steel hooks in a five-hundred-pound bale of cotton and trot up the gangplank of a steamboat singing a religious song and not start the perspiration on the top of his bald head by the achievement.
As for oratory, his colored friends thought that Vinegar was the prince of platform spellbinders. He had the pertinacious guinea-fowl’s gift of gab, a voice which could be heard for two miles, and a vox humana stop to his chest tones that threw in the tremolo for funeral and evangelistic occasions and made his emotional auditors weep copiously over something they did not know anything about.
Vinegar paused at the gate because a stranger was sitting on the porch beside Dr. Sentelle. Vinegar “read sign” on this strange white man to determine whether it would be worth while to go up and interrupt his conversation by requesting a favor. The stranger was old, white-haired, and his movements and the sound of his voice indicated that he was feeble. Vinegar did not know it, but he was looking at the Rev. Dr. Gilbo, president of the Silliway Female Institute.
“Dat white man is some sort broke-down preacher,” Vinegar soliloquized, and he rattled the gate-latch loudly.
“All right, Vinegar, come in!” Dr. Sentelle called. “What do you want?”
“’Scuse me, white folks,” Vinegar murmured, bowing apologetically to the stranger. “I come to ax Elder Sentelle could he he’p me outen a jam.”
“Has the Shoofly outfit fired you?” Dr. Sentelle smiled.
“Naw, suh. Dey’s gwine bestow special honors on me to-night,” Vinegar chuckled, smoothing his stovepipe hat with a big handkerchief. “I done spent de day fixin’ up de chu’ch wid flowers, an’ now I needs two mo’ things to gimme style. Is you white folks got a pulpit chair an’ a ’lectric readin’ lamp dat you ain’t needin’?”
Dr. Sentelle appeared to give himself up to deep thought. In reality he was devoting himself to an internal enjoyment of that amusing request. Dr. Gilbo uttered a surprised chuckle which he promptly covered by a cough and hastily offered Vinegar a cigar.
“What sort of honor is going to be bestowed on you, Vinegar?” Dr. Sentelle asked.
“De Nights of Darkness Lodge is bought me a D,” Vinegar told him.
The white men remained silent, praying for more light. Vinegar busied himself with his cigar, placing the gold band on his little finger and lighting the smoke.
“That’s quite an honor,” Dr. Sentelle ventured, wondering what he was talking about and hoping that Vinegar would say something to illumine the darkness.
“Yes, suh. Dey comes pretty tol’able expensive an’ de lodge couldn’t affode to buy but one,” Vinegar replied, and a little note of disappointment was in his voice.
“That’s too bad,” Dr. Sentelle murmured sympathetically.
“De cost wus twenty-five dollars per each D,” Vinegar sighed. “Of co’se dat’s most too high fer niggers to pay, even jes’ one. So I’s mighty glad to git it.”
“Are you alluding to some lodge degree, my man?” Dr. Gilbo asked.
“Naw, suh, it’s a preacher degree. All de fust-class preachers has ’em. Of co’se, I would druther hab a D.D., but two of ’em costes fifty dollars.”
With a gasp of astonishment the two men comprehended what Vinegar was talking about.
“Oh, I understand,” Dr. Gilbo murmured. “You are receiving the honorary degree of Doctor of Divinity to-night.”
“Yes, suh, dat’s it. Only but I don’t git but one D.”
“May I inquire what college is honoring you?” Gilbo asked.
Vinegar’s answer came very near being the end of Dr. Gilbo.
“De Silliway Female Institoot,” Vinegar told him.
Then there was silence for the space of ten minutes. Vinegar stood as quietly as a mule hitched to a post. Dr. Sentelle’s frail body was shaking with suppressed laughter. Dr. Gilbo felt that his reason was tottering on the crystal throne of intellect. At last Vinegar spoke:
“Could you lend me de loant of de pulpit chair an’ de readin’ lamp, elder?”
“No,” Dr. Sentelle murmured chokingly, “I deeply regret that I cannot.”
“Thank ’e, suh,” Vinegar responded. “I knows you would ef you could. I reckin I better mosey on. I’s shore much obleeged to dis here nice white man fer my seegar. Thank e, Kunnel.”
Vinegar turned and walked as far as the gate, when Sentelle called to him.
“Vinegar, my friend and I would like to attend the meeting at the Shoofly church to-night.”
Vinegar’s stovepipe hat swept the ground and his grotesque body was distorted into an elaborate bow.
“My Lawd, white folks,” he howled in delight. “Dis pore ole nigger won’t ax de good Lawd fer no better blessin’ dan to hab you-alls come out to de Shoofly. I’ll hab a place on de flatforms fer bofe you-alls. De orgies begins at nine o’clock.”
“That rascal, Green Trapps, is at the bottom of this,” Dr. Gilbo said with conviction. “I am going out to the Shoofly church to-night, but I don’t intend to arrive at the beginning of the exercises. I think I shall appear at the psychological moment.”
“I’s wid you in dat plan, white folks,” Dr. Sentelle snickered.
It was never any trouble to get a crowd in the Shoofly church. All that was necessary was to ring the bell and the colored population flocked to the church like doves to the windows.
But on this occasion all the brothers of the lodge had hinted that there would be a most important meeting on this particular night, the grapevine telephone had carried the news, and the people began to arrive from the swamps and plantations long before dark. Some of the old women anxious to get a good seat, went trailing up to the church just about sunset like a lot of old hens going to roost.
By nine o’clock there was not standing room in the church, nor a fence-post or a tree around the building to which another horse or mule could be hitched.
After the congregation had sung songs until they were almost exhausted, Hitch Diamond stepped up to the platform and spoke:
“Brudders an’ sisteren, we is come to dis place so dat de lodge brudders of de Nights of Darkness kin bestow a D on Revun Vinegar Atts. Eve’ybody chipped in a few change an’ we bought it fer him wid twenty-five dollars. De high chief money-keeper will now advance an’ hand over de money.”
Figger Bush pushed through the crowd, and emptied all his pockets, as he laid a pile of silver on a little table beside the pulpit.
“I ain’t spent none of it, brudders,” he announced. “It’s all right dar jes’ like you gib it to me.”
“Perfessor Green Trapps will now advance wid de obscribe!” Hitch commanded.
Thereupon, Green rose from a chair near the pulpit and walked to the little table. He took from his pocket a square of sheepskin, spread it out before him, and flattened it out by piling a handful of silver around the edges. Then he fitted his gold spectacles to his pop eyes, unscrewed the top of a fountain pen and sat down.
There was a slight commotion at the door, but Green did not notice it. There was a scrouging of people who stood in the aisle in order that two distinguished white men might pass, but Green Trapps did not notice that. Green looked up just as the two white men stood at the pulpit railing almost within reach of his hand. Then his startled eyes gazed down into the faces of Dr. Gilbo, president of the Silliway Female Institute, and Dr. Sentelle.
“Gawdlemighty!” Green gasped. He sprang from his chair and sent that piece of furniture whirling across the platform. With four gigantic leaps he covered the space between himself and the nearest window, and he went through that window, splashing the crowd out of his way in his exit like a brickbat dropped in a puddle of black mud.
The people were dazed by this sudden departure of Trapps, and they waited breathlessly for what might happen next. Dr. Gilbo strode upon the pulpit platform and stopped at the table where Green had been sitting. With a snort of indignation, he realized that his servant, Green Trapps, had stolen one of his college graduate diplomas, and was just about to fill it out with the name of Vinegar Atts.
Dr. Gilbo turned and addressed the audience:
“My colored friends, I regret to inform you that Green Trapps is a fraud and impostor, also a liar and a thief. He persuaded you to raise a sum of money to purchase from him an honorary degree from the Silliway Female Institute which he had no right or power to bestow. This college, of which I am president, does not grant honorary degrees, and if it did, we would not sell such an honor under any circumstances or at any price. I think you should congratulate yourselves upon my arrival just in time to thwart the nefarious designs of Green Trapps. He was endeavoring to secure money under false pretenses, and if I remain in my present state of righteous indignation, I shall have him prosecuted under the law.”
Then Dr. Gilbo stalked off the platform and sat down.
“Beg parding, boss,” Hitch Diamond mumbled. “Does I gather from dem remarks of yourn dat Brudder Vinegar Atts don’t git no D?”
“He does not from the Silliway Female Institute,” Dr. Gilbo answered.
“Dat’s too bad,” Hitch Diamond rumbled, scratching his head and wondering what to do next.
At this point, Skeeter Butts, who was sitting in the choir, rose and said:
“Brudder Hitchie, I moves dat de twenty-five dollars dat Green Trapps didn’t git be give to Elder Vinegar Atts to buy a pulpit chair an’ a ’lectric readin’ lamp.”
“I seconts dat motion,” Pap Curtain snarled. “Dat’ll let Vinegar down kinder easy an’ won’t hurt his feelin’s so much.”
When Hitch Diamond put the question, the motion was carried with a whoop and everybody was in a good humor again.
“Less sing our lodge song fer de closin’ exercises, brudders,” Hitch bellowed. “Eve’ybody sing!”