HIST’RIES (continued 3)

“Who? Don’ tell me nothin’ ’bout raisin’ chillun to be a sattafaction to you w’en you git ole,” she ended with emphasis; Carmelite nodding her head with perfect understanding.

Maybe Aunt Fisky was too easy-going, Carmelite told her. She ought to shame Gussie. And not let him walk over her, long as he was staying under her roof free. She ought to turn him out-doors, and shame him good, and force him to show her the right respect.

“But daughter, don’t you know Gussie ain’ no nigger, like you an’ me?” Aunt Fisky reminded her. “How you expec’ me to try an’ shame Gussie, an’ make ’im know he ain’ doin’ de right thing?... Gussie ain’ got no nigger feelin’s.... Gussie a w’ite man. An’ he know it, too. So how kin I change Gussie natchal ways?”

Carmelite moved on her chair uneasily, and began to speak with sudden vehemence.

“Gussie ain’ good as a nigger!” she declared, stressing every word as she spoke. “Bin livin’ munks niggers all dese years, an’ now try’n to play proud wid you, an’ ain’ got nothin’ substanshun to back ’im up?... Lookin’ down on you, ole as you is; an’ de onles mother Gussie ever knowed?... Gawd knows, Aun’ Fisky, you too tender-hearted. You ain’ owin’ nothin’ to Gussie no longer; now he done growed up, an’ plenny able to take care ’imself.... You done paid ’im evvything.... Who?... Gussie lucky he ain’ had me to deal wid. ’Cause I sho would-a turned ’im out in de street long time ago; w’ite or no w’ite.”

Aunt Fisky couldn’t do that, she told Carmelite. It wouldn’t be right. It would be breaking the promise she made with dead people; when Gussie’s mother gave her the poor, fatherless child to raise. And besides, Gussie had nobody but her to turn to. No matter how mean he was, she couldn’t go back on him. Carmelite knew good as she did that the white folks wouldn’t recognize him.

“An’ I know good, none us niggers ain’ goin’ cunsider claimin’ ’im,” Carmelite declared with positive conviction.

“An’ da’s de very reason make me stick to Gussie like I do,” Aunt Fisky assured her with simple loyalty.

“Ole folks sho is strange,” Carmelite commented, shaking her head, and wondering at the old woman’s questionable sense of duty.

Yes. Old folks did a heap of things that young folks couldn’t understand; she told Carmelite. But she was going to do the best she could for Gussie, as long as she lived. And if he came to a bad end, she wouldn’t have anything to blame herself for. She was willing to leave it all in the hands of the Lawd. Gussie would wake up some day in his right mind; when Gawd put His finger on him and stopped him in his tracks. Carmelite would see. Just wait.

“Maybe so,” Carmelite faltered, dubiously, getting up from her chair and making ready to leave. “But I sho don’ wan’ see ole no-manners Gussie come lopin’ up in my house tonight,” she went on; taking the pan of eggs from the table and walking towards the door. “If he know w’at good for ’im, he better stay ’way.... So I’m goin’ leave you now; an’ go yonder an’ bake my cake.... An’ I’m goin’ pick you two lucky numbers, Aun’ Fisky; an’ see’f I can’ make you win de quilt. You heah?” she added in a cheerful tone, as she walked away; leaving the old woman standing in the doorway, looking pensively across the green.

Despite the fact of Nookie’s being a sort of local joke, on account of the peculiar clothes she often wore; there were a few colored sisters of the East Green who showed genuine respect for her ability as a dress-maker. They spoke of her as a “natchal bawn seamster,” when it came to transforming antique gowns and “gabbarellas” donated by the white folks. And she certainly knew how to make clothes “come to fit fat people fine”.... Who? “Nookie sho could play wid a needle an’ thread an’ scissors.” Nobody ever need be afraid of getting a dress from Nookie that would make her look like she had a “low back an’ a high belly.” No indeed. Nookie was a “p’yo fashion-plate” for making over old clothes. And cheap, too; ’long-side the “boughten clo’se from the dry-goods sto’.”

Eager to live up to this hard-earned reputation, and pleased with the thought of being conspicuous at Carmelite’s raffle, among the critical sisters of the East Green, Nookie made herself a new dress for the occasion. She had just finished the clever contrivance; which, being creased and wrinkled from many alterations, had to be pressed before it could be worn.

Finding that she had no charcoal to make a fire in the furnace, she decided to run over to Soongy’s house and press it there. Soongy was going to the raffle; and Nookie was sure that she would be ironing something for herself to wear that night. So putting the dress in a market basket, Nookie started off across the green, humming softly as she hurried along.

When she came to Soongy’s house, the gate was open; and the sound of singing inside told her that someone was at home. There were two voices singing, and the sound was cheerful and pleasant. Nookie recognized the voices of Soongy and Dink. There was no need to call. They wouldn’t hear. She would walk right in.

Going into the kitchen, she found Soongy at work at the ironing-board, pressing a voluminous, well-starched petticoat; an old faded curtain spread on the floor under the board to keep the trailing garment from getting soiled.

Dink was standing at the kitchen table, washing dishes; naked as though he had just emerged from the bath. Both of them were singing in unison, tranquilly happy; and apparently oblivious to each other’s presence.

Nookie stood in speechless amazement for a few seconds, wondering at the unusual spectacle; neither of the singers having noticed her quiet entrance. At length she exclaimed:

“In de name o’ Gawd, Soongy! W’at kind o’ fashion dis is, y’all got hyuh? Stannin’ hyuh oncuncern’ singin’ Gawd praise; an’ Dink purradin’ in front you naked as a black snake. None y’all ain’ feel shame?... Boy, go yonder an’ wrap somh’n ’round yo’ middle, befo’ you come facin’ people so haphazzud,—big as you is!”

Not waiting to hear all of Nookie’s speech, Dink ran into the next room, laughing heartily. Soongy continued to slide her iron back and forth over the petticoat on the board, unperturbed. Looking at Nookie, she said casually:

“Nookie, you sho know how to come up on people easy. W’at make you ain’ call, so somebody kin know you comin’?”

“W’at good callin’ goin’ do?” Nookie asked her. “You an’ Dink up in hyuh together, singin’ so boist’ous? Wid yo’ min’ workin’ so heavy on dat i’nin-boad; I reckon you ain’ took time to notice Dink walkin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, till I had to call yo’ ’tenshun to it. Is you?”

With calm politeness, Soongy said:

“Nookie, you ain’ got to gimme no egvice cuncernin’ Dink. I know de boy was naked. An’ he know he gotta stay naked, too. ’Till I git good an’ ready to give ’im ’is clo’se, from whah I done hid ’um.”

Nookie looked puzzled.

“W’at you mean?” she inquired. “Da’s de way you punishes Dink to make ’im stay in-do’s?”

“Da’s de onles way I know how to keep Dink from goin’ yonder in de swamp, play’n munks dem shoe-pick ditches,” Soongy went on to explain. “Times an’ times, I done tol’ Dink I don’ never eat no nasty shoe-pick. But he so hard-head. He steal off evvy chance he git; an’ go yonder in de swamp, wid Mahaley chillun an’ some dem yuther hongry li’l A-rabs from down de street. Comin’ back hyuh at night, wid a sack full o’ dirty ole shoe-pick feesh; expec’in me to cook ’um.... Like he ain’ never bin use to nothin’ ’tall good to eat.”

Nookie looked at her with a feeling of mingled disappointment and disgust. Was Soongy trying to put on airs with her, and make believe she didn’t eat tchoupique? A fish she was raised on; like all the other poor colored folks living close to the swamp. A fish so fat and greasy, and so plentiful in all the muddy bayous and ditches, that everybody called it “Gawd’s feesh.” Something Gawd provided for His nigger people, to keep them in food when everything else failed. A fish that all the swamp niggers caught in the long summer time, and cut up and salted and dried in the sun; and hung up in their kitchens to last through the winter, when they couldn’t afford to buy fresh meat. And you didn’t have to catch them with a line, like you did other fish, either. All the children had to do when they went to the tchoupique pond: take a flour barrel, and knock out the two heads. Then, just “plump” it down in the water hard. And you never missed having ’most a barrel half-full, ready to scoop up with your hands, and throw out on the bank.

Thinking of the unctuous court-bouillon and tchoupique stew she knew how to make, Nookie asked:

“Soongy, you say you don’ eat shoe-pick?”

“Who?” answered Soongy, with a superior air. “I jus’ as soon eat lamp-eel, as eat dat nasty slimy mud feesh. No ’ndeed, not me.”

“I eats ’um, Miss Nookie,” sounded Dink’s pleasant announcement, as he came in from the next room; a pillow slip tied around his middle with a string.

He went over to the table quietly and began washing the dishes. Soongy looked at him crossly, and shouted:

“Boy! W’at in de name o’ Gawd you mean? Takin’ my nice clean pilluh slip off de bed, to splash it all up wid greasy dish water?... Go yonder in de room, an’ take dat pilluh slip off yo’ black body, an’ put it back whah it b’lonks; befo’ I stomps bofe yo’ livers down an’ beats you speechless!... You hyeah me?”

Dink looked at her appealingly and left the room.

“W’at make you don’ leave de boy put on ’is clo’se, Soongy?” Nookie asked, rebukingly. “Ain’ he gotta go yonder to Carmelite house wid you tonight, to play de comb an’ make music for de raffle?”

“You leave Dink be,” Soongy advised her, curtly. “Dink got plenny time to put on ’is clo’se befo’ he go to Carmelite house. Dis now. Tonight ain’ come yet.”

Not being in sympathy with Soongy’s views, Nookie was ready to argue in Dink’s behalf.

“Soongy, w’at make you wan’ be so hard on Dink like you is; w’en all he doin’, is try’n to be decen’?” She asked. “You think mo’ ’bout yo’ pilluh slip gittin’ spoilt, den you does ’bout de boy ketchin’ ’is death o’ col’; runnin’ ’roun hyuh in ’is naked skin, wid all dis draf’ searchin’ over ’is body. You sho oughta be ’shame’.”

Soongy looked up from her ironing, and answered impatiently:

“Dink ain’ fraid no draf’ blowin’ ove’ ’im, out yonder in de swamp wid dem chillun; w’en he pull off ’is clo’se an’ jump in de ditch wid a ba’l to ketch shoe-pick, is he?... An’ inny-way, you ain’ need to gimme no egvice ’bout Dink,” she went on, with animation. “If da’s all you come hyuh for,—to raise de subjec’ cuncernin’ w’at I has to do wid Dink; you gotta ’scuze me if I tell you, you welcome to go back home de same way you come hyuh. An’ no hard feelin’s, either.”

“I ain’ come hyuh to meddle you,” Nookie apologized. “I come hyuh to press dis dress I wan’ wear to Carmelite raffle tonight. I ain’ had no charcoal to my house, an’ I say you mus’ bin had fire in de funnish; so I took my dress an’ come hyuh to do my pressin’.... But you ain’ mind, is you?” She asked, falteringly.

“De i’ons an’ de fire an’ de funnish all hyuh. An’ you kin press as much as you please,” Soongy answered; putting her work aside and clearing the board for Nookie. “I ain’ min’ nothin’. ’Cep w’en people try to make me feel cheap befo’ chillun,” she went on. “Wan’ make me think I gotta eat shoe-pick, jus’ ’cause Dink bring ’um hyuh an’ ax me to cook ’um.”

Nookie laughed pleasantly, and said:

“Soongy, nobody ain’ wan’ fo’ce you to eat shoe-pick if you scawns ’um so critical. Nex’ time Dink bring a mess o’ feesh home, you jes’ sen’ ’um roun’ to my house; an’ I bet I show you how to perish ’um. Who? I’m a plum fool w’en it come to mixin’-up shoe-pick an’ tomattusus an’ seas’nin an’ things.... An’ Dink, you kin fill up yo’ plate many time as you want,” she called to him, in his hiding place. “So bring de things roun’ to me, you hyeah?”

The sound of Dink’s pleased giggle echoed from the next room, and Soongy said to Nookie, loud enough for Dink to hear:

“Come on hyuh, Nookie, an’ git thoo pressin’ yo’ dress, an’ go home an’ lemme straighten up hyuh. An’ stop puttin’ devilment in dat boy head.... Nex’ time Dink go yonder ketchin’ shoe-pick, I lay I’m goin’ fix ’im so, he go naked till de Lawd has to take pity on ’im, an’ give ’im clo’se to put on. I sho Gawd will. If I has to burn evvy scat’rin rag he got to ’is name.”

Nookie walked over to the furnace, and taking one of the irons from the fire, she spat on it to test the heat. As she began pressing her dress, she said:

“Soongy, you ain’ foolish, no. Good as you know how to make b’lieve you is.”

Ignoring the remark, Soongy went to the table and fell to washing the dishes which Dink left in the pan. Very soon, song took the place of conversation; and the two women worked on, singing cheerfully over their tasks. Now and then the wavering sound of Dink’s voice came from the next room, like a broken response.

Nookie finished pressing her dress, folded it carefully, and put it in the basket, making ready to go.

“Now I’m goin’ yonder to my house, an’ lay down till dis evenin’,” she said to Soongy, after thanking her for the use of her charcoal and irons. “An’ watch how you goin’ see me strut in dis new frock tonight, w’en I git to Carmelite house, in front all dem people say dey comin’,” she called back as she walked out. “An’ leave Dink put on ’is clo’se, so he kin come soon an’ play music on de comb, an’ make dem niggers feel good befo’ dey go yonder to Tempe wake.”

The prolonged quiet in the next room seemed to tell Soongy that Dink had fallen asleep. As soon as Nookie had gone, Soongy called to him commandingly:

“Boy! You better come in dis kitchen an’ wipe dese dishes, an’ help me straighten-up dis room, befo’ you commence thinkin’ ’bout puttin’ on inny clo’se to go ’way from hyuh tonight. You hyeah me?”

All afternoon fast-moving banks of dark threatening clouds were hovering over the East Green, and with the coming of evening the rain began falling in torrents. Gussie had just finished his supper of cornbread and coffee before the open fireplace, and was sitting watching the puffs of smoke the wind blew down the chimney, and listening to the pelting sound of the rain on the old shingle roof. He wondered how he would be able to go out if the rain continued; remembering that it was the night he had to help old man Hooblitz with his sausage-making. Rain or no rain, he had to go. Because his word was his bond; and he knew that the old man would expect him.

Aunt Fisky was sitting by the table, patching one of Gussie’s old cottonade shirts by the dim light of a flickering candle. She saw him get up and go to the door and look out, and knew by his manner that he was impatient to get away. She felt that it would be useless to try and hinder him. It would only make him cross.

Putting on his hat and coat, he told her good night and started off in the rain. He would go to Mr. Cholly Groos’s and get a cup of lemon-gin first, he told himself; then go down to old man Hooblitz’s and hurry and get through; and after that “go by an’ peep in at Carmelite’s raffle for a w’ile.” And after that, go to the church and sing over Tempe till he got tired. Then, after a full night of varied pleasures, he would go home to Aunt Fisky, and “lay down, an’ sleep de sleep o’ de sattafied.”

This singular old German with the effervescent name, was a woodcutter by day; who, requiring extra funds for the desired supply of beer and whiskey for selfish consumption, against swamp-fever, snake-bites and such-like evils, managed to overcome the need by following the craft of sausage-making at night. His retired laboratory was a small shanty on the edge of Ziffle’s Wood, adjoining the cemetery. Hooblitz cut down the trees for Mr. Ziffle, who furnished the villagers with cord wood for their cook stoves and fireplaces.

Owing to a series of harsh disagreements with his married daughter who thought not highly of her father’s spectacular inebriety; old Hooblitz lived alone at his sausage factory on Mr. Ziffle’s property. Occasionally Gussie went to help him with the sausage-making; often spending the night with him, and taking part in his deep potations and raucous revelling; when only the owls in the cypress trees and the bullfrogs in the near-by canal would be annoyed by the seeming rivalry.

Strictly speaking, the place where the sausage was made could not be called a room. It was nothing more than a tin roof supported by four posts, young cypress trees with the bark on. The floor was of mud, baked hard from the fire that burned in the center three nights of each week. Over the fire was a large three-legged cauldron, with a brick under each foot. In it was boiled the mixture he peddled in a basket, going about in the evening from door to door; no distinction being made between his white and colored patrons.

Adjoining the place where he worked,—fastened on like a casual after-thought, was the room in which he slept. Its furnishings consisted of a rude bunk nailed to the wall; a long cypress tool chest resting on a pair of tressels; a soap box and a beer keg, to serve the purpose of chairs for any chance visitors. By way of decoration, the walls were hung with old hats, coats and trousers; here and there, odd pieces of red flannel shirts and underwear adding a redeeming note of cheer to the dull squalor of the place. The most striking thing, however, was an array of empty flasks and bottles (eloquent reminders of the revels of the past) hanging by strings from the rafters overhead.

For a long time Mr. Ziffle had the feeling that his woodpiles were being rifled, gently but systematically. He discussed the fact with old Hooblitz, who, not only gave vent to friendly indignation; but expressed his willingness to act as night-watchman and shoot the unworthy rogue, regardless of caste or color.

But his enthusiasm did not succeed in removing suspicion from Mr. Ziffle’s mind. He was convinced that Hooblitz was the crafty pilferer. So he determined to put the matter to a test. Whereupon he took a dozen or more sticks of wood and bored them full of gimlet holes; into which he poured a small quantity of gunpowder, plugging them up afterward. Then he placed the loaded cord sticks on the tops of the various woodpiles, and sat down patiently to wait results.

The night set in with a driving rain, just as old Hooblitz lighted his fire and filled the big iron pot with the ingredients for the unsanitary brew he would peddle as sausage. Looking at his supply of wood, he saw there was not enough to finish the boiling, and that he would have to pay a secret visit to Mr. Ziffle’s woodpile to get a few sticks to last the night. He was just about to go out, when the door flew open suddenly, and Gussie lunged into the room, dripping wet and blowing like a porpoise.

Displeased with the untimely interruption, and not wanting Gussie to find out the secret of his wood supply, knowing that he would speak of it in the village and Mr. Ziffle would hear it eventually; old Hooblitz stood looking at the unwelcome visitor, leering at his discomfort with a sort of malicious delight. Gussie sat down dejectedly on the beer keg, beating his wet cap against its side. The old man continued to laugh, wondering at the same time how long he would have to wait before going about his work. Getting up slowly, Gussie shook himself several times, like a wet dog trying to dry himself.

“Gawd knows, Mr. Hooblitz,” he began to complain, “I ain’ see w’at you got to laugh at. If I had knowed ’twas goin’ rain like dis, I sho would ’a stayed ’way from hyuh tonight.... You ain’ goin’ make no sausage, bad weather like dis, is you?”

’Twasn’t raining on the inside; the old man told him curtly. He didn’t have to stay, if he wanted to go back home; the old man went on. He got along without help before; he could get along without it again. Little bit of rain didn’t make him afraid to work for an honest living. The house had a roof over it. And there was a good fire, in the bargain.

“Li’l bit o’ rain!” Gussie exclaimed; surprised at his disagreeable manner of talking. “Man, you ain’ seen de water fallin’ out-do’as, if you wan’ call dat a li’l bit o’ rain.... Look how I’m soaked clean thoo to de skin, if you ain’ b’lieve w’at I’m tellin’ you.”

“Well, w’at you want me to do?” The old man asked indifferently, with a flat harsh drawl.

“Gimme li’l somh’n to drink,” Gussie told him frankly. “Li’l somh’n to warm me up befo’ I start ’way from hyuh. ’Cause I ain’ goin’ stay wid you an’ do no work tonight.... I done already seen whah you too cross an’ crabby for me to stay hyuh an’ play ’roun’ dis sausage pot. Wet as I done got comin’ ’way down hyuh in de woods for nothin’.... An’ inny-way, I got to go yonder to Carmelite raffle an’ see’f I can’ win’ one dem quilts for Aun’ Fisky.... An’ got to go yonder to Tempe wake, too.... So gimme a drink o’ somh’n-nother, Mr. Hooblitz, so I kin leave hyuh w’en it slack-up rainin’ a li’l bit out-do’as.”

The old man took a flask from his pocket, and holding it out to Gussie, said roughly:

“Here. Take a drink. An’ I hope it lands you in Hell before morning.... An’ hurry on back to your damn niggers; if that’s what you want to do. I reckon I kin git along good enough by myself.”

Gussie looked at the flask; then contemplated the old man’s face for a second before answering.

“But no, Mr. Hooblitz. You sho is cross tonight.... W’as de matter? You begrudge me a li’l bit o’ licker to keep me from ketchin’ col’, wet as I’m is? An’ come hyuh to help you, too?... Hyuh, take yo’ licker back,” he went on, holding out the flask to the old man. “I ain’ got to drink it, if da’s de way you wan’ talk. Frien’ly as me an’ you bin for so long.”

Old Hooblitz took the flask, and after helping himself to a long swig, he handed it back to Gussie, saying:

“Don’t be so damn touchy about your niggers. Take your drink, an’ go on back to ’um. You might miss the excitement if you stay here too long.”

Gussie put the flask to his mouth and took a long pull. He handed it back and the old man put it in his pocket and sat down sullenly. Gussie shook himself in his wet clothes, put on his cap, buttoned his coat well about his neck, and started for the door. He looked out to see if the rain had abated.

“’Tain drappin’ so hard like it ’twas,” he said, turning to the old man. “But ’tain no use stay’n hyuh no longer. So Mr. Hooblitz, I’m goin’ tell you good-night.”

The old man made an inarticulate grunt as Gussie left, calling to him as the door closed:

“Damn you an’ your good-night! I don’t care if I never see you no more.”

Going over to the bunk, he lifted the straw mattress and brought out a quart bottle of whiskey. He filled the empty flask he had in his pocket, took a generous gulp, put the flask back, and looked out at the weather.

The rain was falling in torrents.

He would have to go out after the wood, as the fire was burning very low. Going over to the array of clothing on the wall, he took an old coat from the peg, threw it over his shoulders and started out in search of the woodpile. After stumbling through the dark, he came back after a while with four sticks of wood, his clothing thoroughly drenched.

“A good dram’ll warm up the inside, an’ I’ll be dry in no time,” he said to reassure himself, lifting his flask and drinking heartily. Then he raked the fire together and put on two sticks of wood, and went into his room to lie down until the cooking required further attention.

The rain pelted on the tin roof of the shed and the ringing sound went echoing through the room like a savage serenade. The malodorous fumes of the boiling pot also went into the room, bringing him visions of profitable sales and more comforting flasks for the lonely nights to follow. The thought made him happy, so he took another long drink of thankfulness; closing his eyes so as not to be shocked by the dismal aspect of an empty bottle.

The rain rattled and the fire cracked, but nothing disturbed the pleasure of his dreaming. The pot gurgled and the fire cracked louder than before, but the rude noise failed to penetrate the chaotic lethargy that wrapped his maudlin mind.

Suddenly the gunpowder exploded, sending the loaded cord sticks flying in every direction; the seething pot soaring into the air against the tin roof, rattling like a charge of light artillery; the heterogeneous contents, scattered to the four winds like the spoils of battle.

But old Hooblitz heard no sound. No hint of the loud catastrophe. He lay unmoved on his dingy bed, wrapped in a fringe of bibulous ecstasy; half-hidden in the reek of steam that filled the room; oblivious to all mundane things; until the coming of morning confronted him with the cruel truth, and the accusing presence of Mr. Ziffle, asking if he was ready to deliver the culprit to justice.

Gussie went stumbling along the muddy street through the rain, wondering how soon he would come to a shed under which he could take momentary shelter. The nearest one was Mr. Honnus’s bar-room. He could see the pale gleam of lamplight reaching out across the street in the distance, but the welcome reflection was still several blocks away. He hurried on, quarreling with himself for going on such a wild goose chase, and cursing old Hooblitz for sending him off in the rain with so little consideration.

When he reached Mr. Honnus’s shed, he sat down on the door-step, deliberating whether to go in and have a drink to warm him up; or to continue right on to Carmelite’s house and dry his clothes by her kitchen stove before the raffle started.

He came to a decision without long delay. The bar-room door opened, and Chicken-Volsin coming out, Gussie had to get up to let him pass. Seeing Gussie’s wretched condition, Chicken-Volsin exclaimed:

“Great Gawd, man! Whah you come from? You look like somebody bin wollin’ in de ditch.... Come inside wid me an’ git somh’n to drink.”

“Sho Gawd will,” Gussie answered, well-pleased. “’Cause I feel like I’m ’bout to git de chills; wid all dis col’ rain searchin’ ’round my body.”

“Whah in de name o’ Gawd you bin, Gussie?” Volsin asked in amazement; walking over to the bar and calling for whiskey.

Gussie gave him a brief account of his useless journey to old Hooblitz’ place; the unfriendly manner in which he had been treated; and his determination to get to Carmelite’s raffle that night, rain or no rain. Anybody that had a spare dime could go and take a chance. And he had his mind set on winning one of Carmelite’s quilts for Aunt Fisky; so he would go, if he had to swim there.

Chicken-Volsin tried to shame him about his appearance, but Gussie assured him that he could sit by Carmelite’s stove and dry out before he went in the front room “munks de people.”

“Some mens sho is foolish ’bout goin’ wid wimmins,” Volsin twitted.

“’Tain’ de wimmins takin’ me to Carmelite house,” Gussie explained. “It’s dem quilts she rafflin’.... I ain’ give Aun’ Fisky nothin’ for so long, I wan’ bring ’uh home somh’n nice to make up for it.... An’ two or three dimes ain’ goin’ break nobody. So da’s w’at I’m goin’ for.”

Chicken-Volsin accepted the excuse without further comment, and offered him another friendly drink. Gussie swallowed the whiskey with relish, and seeming to have forgotten his discomfort, started to go.

Chicken-Volsin walked to the door with him and saw him go out in the rain. He stood watching him running across the street, and laughed to think what a fool Gussie was, exposing himself to such weather “for nothin’ but one li’l ole raggedy quilt.”

On reaching Carmelite’s house, Gussie pushed the gate open hurriedly, and ran up the steps, stamping his feet loudly on the gallery, trying to dry them. Carmelite was in the kitchen, and hearing the strange noise, she came out to see who had arrived. As she entered the room, the front door flew open unceremoniously, and she saw Gussie lunge into the room; his shoes covered with mud, and rillets of water running from his clothing and dripping from his cap, all over her neat, well-scrubbed floor.

She looked at him, filled with consternation, struggling for appropriate speech.

“Look! ole ugly w’ite nigger.... Is you done los’ yo’ good mind?” She almost shouted. “W’at you mean, comin’ up in my house dis-away?... Wettin’ up all my funnuchuh, an’ trackin’ dirt all ove’ my nice clean flo’ wid yo’ big ole muddy shoes?... Git out o’ hyuh an’ go whah you b’long!... Nobody ain’ ax you to come hyuh, no-how.”

“Carmelite, don’ holluh at me like dat,” Gussie appealed to her quietly. “Lemme git to de kitchen an’ set by de stove, an’ git dry befo’ people start to come an’ ketch me lookin’ like dis.... Mizabul as you see me hyuh, wid all dese wet clo’se on.”

“Who?” Carmelite shouted with indignation. “You ain’ think you goin’ stay hyuh tonight an’ go munks people, trampy-lookin’ an’ lavadated as you is?... Who?... Gussie, you mus’ be a fool!... So you better make up yo’ min’ to go ’way from hyuh right now; an’ no mo’ talkin’ ’bout it.... You hyeah w’at I say?”

Gussie looked at her dejectedly, wondering whether to go or stay. He tried to reason with her, telling her that he only wanted to get dry before going out again; that was all. She wouldn’ have the heart to turn him out in the rain, after he came all the way from the woods to take a few chances just to help her out? Nobody would turn a dog out-doors a night like that. He wouldn’ bother anybody out in the kitchen all by himself. Who would care anything about him, as long as they were having a good time in the front of the house?

Taking a half dollar out of his pocket, he held it out to Carmelite saying:

“Hyuh; take dis fo’-bits, an’ pick some good numbers, an’ see’f you can’ win de quilt for me; so I kin take it yonder to Aun’ Fisky.”

Carmelite took the coin without a demur. It was an unexpected ameliorating charm. A welcome token of truce.

“Come on out hyuh an’ set to de stove; so I kin hurry up an’ wipe dese tracks off dis flo’ befo’ innybody git hyuh,” Carmelite said in a quiet voice, starting for the kitchen with Gussie following her. “An’ ’tain no pity for you make me change my min’; no,” she went on. “If ’twasn’ say I know Aun’ Fisky so long; an’ know w’at she got to put up wid; I sho would make you take de road tonight; brazen as you is, comin’ hyuh like dis.”

Gussie pulled a chair close to the stove and sat down; glad to get where it was warm, and thankful to be under shelter at last. Carmelite took a floor-cloth from behind the door and went to the front room to wipe up the mud tracks from Gussie’s shoes. After a while she came back; and seeing Gussie looking at the coffee pot on the stove, she said:

“I’m goin’ give you a cup o’ coffee; an’ you stay hyuh an’ drink it. An’ don’t you come to de front w’en people git hyuh, an’ de raffle be goin’ on in yonder. You hyeah?”

Gussie told her that he would stay in the kitchen. All he wanted was to get dry. And maybe after he drank his coffee, he would go to sleep for a little while, before he passed by Tempe’s wake, on his way home.

“Well, you stay hyuh in de kitchen,” Carmelite reminded him. “An’ if inny one yo’ numbers draw de quilt, I’ll fetch it out hyuh to you.”

She poured a cup of coffee and placed it on the apron of the stove for him. Hearing voices at the front, she went to look after her guests; leaving Gussie to take his enjoyment as he felt inclined.

When Carmelite came into the room, Scilla was standing in the middle of the floor unpinning herself from the folds of an old gray blanket. Mozella was sitting in the rocking-chair, wiping her bare feet with a towel, and making ready to put on her shoes and stockings, which she had carried in her hand. Pinkey was leaning against the door, hesitating to come in, for fear of leaving mud tracks on the floor.

“Gawd knows, Carmelite,” she remarked half-regretfully, “you sho picked out a nasty night to make people come ’way from home, an’ bring a whole lot o’ mud an’ confusion in yo’ house,—jus’ for one quilt.”

Carmelite gave an unconcerned laugh and told her not to worry about the mud. She had plenty of rags and soap to clean it up tomorrow. She wasn’t too old and feeble to get down on her two knees to scrub. ’Specially after people had come so well-meanin’ to help her make a few dimes, to pay for all the sewin’ she put on that nice Jacob-ladder quilt she was goin’ leave ’um to view later on. No indeed.... A little bit of mud tracks wouldn’t upset her, if the crowd was goin’ to be plennyful.

Keziah came in, followed by Frozine who was carrying a lantern; her skirt tucked up above her knees; her white stockings and battered pair of loose-fitting men’s shoes giving her a most ludicrous appearance.

Soongy and Lethe were sitting in the corner, staring at her in amused silence. Dink was standing across the room, looking at her with his hand over his mouth, struggling to keep back a convulsive outbreak.

Carmelite went to take the lantern from Frozine, saying:

“Frozine, you come clean from home all thoo de street like dis? Wid a lantun shinin’ ginse yo’ laigs so brazen? Callin’ people tenshun to you, crittacul-lookin’ as you is?”

Who? Frozine remarked with a fine indifference. She didn’t have people to study about.... She didn’t play with mud in the day-time; so she knew good and well that she wasn’t going to take no chances with any Gritny mud in the night-time.... Fallin’ down in the dark and wreckin’ herself, without a lantern.... No indeed.... People laughin’ didn’t worry her. They could laugh at her legs as much as they pleased. Laughin’ couldn’t hurt her feelings.... But she sure Gawd was going to look to keep her legs from getting hurt.... Yes indeed.... Because she had too many things she had to do, before she “runned up on a accident an’ come to be a cripple befo’ her time.”

“Hyuh Bennee done come, Carmelite. An’ got Duckery wid ’im, too,” Soongy called to her as she went back with Frozine’s lantern.

The two young men came in smiling to everyone present, and the buzz of conversation and merry laughter began to fill the room.

Carmelite came back with the Jacob-ladder quilt and spread it over a chair for examination. The women commented on the bright colors, and admired the beauty of the pattern, and praised Carmelite for the fine work she had done. Carmelite thanked them for coming, and told them she wanted everybody to have a good time.

“How long y’all expec’in to stay hyuh?” Duckery asked with playful impatience. “You goin’ stay hyuh all night an’ cackle like a passul o’ guinea-hens?... Done forgot ’bout Tempe waitin’ for y’all to do some singin’ ove’ ’uh, yonder to de church?... Y’all better git started an’ do w’at you wan’ do; if you wan’ git finish an’ go to inny wake tonight.”

“Das jus’ w’at I say, Duckery. You sho right,” Soongy agreed. “W’at Carmelite waitin’ for, innyway? Maybe de bad weather keepin’ de members from comin’.... Look to me like dey got enough hyuh already to go ’head wid de intuhprize.... Evvybody w’at done took a chance on de quilt ain’ got to be hyuh to see de thing go thoo, is dey?”

No. They didn’t have to wait any longer; Carmelite answered. She would start things going right away. Calling to Dink, she told him to make music on the comb so all would be lively. He began playing a merry time, and the spirit of cheer and good fellowship went floating about the room.

Carmelite took from the table a cardboard shoe box containing the blanks and numbered slips for the raffle, and asked Duckery if he would call out the numbers. He put the numbered slips in his hat and the blanks in Bennee’s hat; and after clapping his hands for attention, he said:

“If dey got innybody hyuh ain’t picked a number for dis raffle, dey better come on now an’ choose; so we kin put ’um all in de hat together, an’ leave Bennee commence shakin’ ’um up. ’Cause you know dis thing gotta go thoo straight like a lotry.... Square deal to evvybody, ’dout inny prefyun.” (Preference.)

Each member present had a number; and Carmelite had the list with their names “marked-up on de paper.” They were all sure that the drawing would be fair and square. Duckery would call the numbers and Bennee would handle the blanks.

Dink’s harmonious comb was playing a pleasant obligato as the drawing began, and all eyes were looking on with eager expectation.

“Number foteen!” Duckery called out, taking the slip from the hat with a flourish.

“Nothin’ ain’ wrote on dis’n,” Bennee informed him, unfolding the blank and examining it on both sides.

Duckery looked at him with an ominous scowl, exclaiming:

“Ole country nigger, ain’t you never took part in a raffle befo’?... Dat ain’ de way you gotta call back to me w’en I calls out de number.... If dey ain’ got nothin’ on de paper, all you gotta say to me is Blank.... ’Till you picks out de paper got Prize marked-up on it.... Now go ’head, an’ do de thing right.... An’ lissen good so you kin un’stan’ de numbers w’en I calls ’um.”

“Da’s right, Duckery,” came Carmelite’s earnest approval. “You make dis thing go thoo straight. ’Cause I don’ wan’ have none y’all niggers say I had dese numbers fixed-up befo’ han’. An’ say I robbed ’um out a dime, ’cause dey ain’ had de luck to win de quilt.”

“I know you ain’ talkin’ to me,” she heard Scilla’s sharp staccato call out. “I know I ain’ goin’ bother my good self ’bout raisin’ no trouble over one li’l ole dry dime I done paid out on any quilt.”

“Number nine,” Duckery called in a loud voice.

“Dis’n blank, too,” Bennee answered innocently.

Duckery rolled his eyes and glared at him intently, while everybody laughed at Bennee’s forgetfulness.

“Number fifty-two,” Duckery called, fixing his gaze sternly on Bennee.

“Blank,” Bennee answered with a pleased grin; satisfied that he was learning the intricacies of the game.

“Number nineteen,” Duckery called gaily; seeing Mozella looking at him with keen anticipation.

“Blank,” came Bennee’s announcement.

“Law ...d!” reverberated Mozella’s exclamation of disappointment. “I sho thought my number nineteen was goin’ bring me good luck.... Da’s de number o’ de day my sister baby was bawn.... An’ bawn wid one teeth in de front ’is mouth, too.”

“O g’way from hyuh, gal,” scoffed Keziah, giving Mozella a playful push. “Ugly an’ ill-formed as yo’ sister baby is,—’tain no wonder yo’ li’l dime done went astray.”

Much displeased at being interrupted by the laughter that followed Keziah’s comment, Duckery looked at the women and shouted crossly:

“Quit y’all wranglin’, for Gawd sake! An’ lemme git thoo playin’ wid dis hat-full o’ papers.... You think I wan’ stay hyuh all night?”

The commanding tone of his voice and the spectacular batting of his eyelids brought immediate silence. Whereupon he called out vehemently:

“Number twenny-two!”

“Twenny-two blank like de yuther one,” Bennee answered with a tone of apparent surprise.

“You already done forgot w’at I tol’ you?” Duckery grumbled, fixing him with a menacing stare, before taking another slip from the hat.

“Number ninety-nine,” he boomed, looking at Bennee steadily.

“Dis’n ain’ blank!” Bennee called out joyfully. “Dis’n got somh’n wrote ’cross it, diffunt from all de yuther ones.”

“Number ninety-nine de prize!” Broke forth the excited chorus of soprano voices.... “Who number ninety-nine is, Carmelite?” they questioned. “Ninety-nine done win de quilt.... Innybody hyuh got ninety-nine for dey number?” They babbled. “Who ever ’tis picked ninety-nine for dey number, sho is lucky. Ain’t dey?” The comment went on; until Carmelite brought the list of names and looked to see whose name was written after the winning number.

“Lawd, people!” She exclaimed with delight. “Aun’ Fisky de one done win de quilt.... An’ I ain’ sorry, either. Bad as she needin’ cov’rins w’en de col’ weather come up on ’uh.”

“Some people sho is lucky,” declared Lethe.

“Not me,” Frozine informed her. “I ain’ never win nothin’ in my whole life.... An’ hyuh I comed thoo all dis mud an’ rain to witness Carmelite fine Jacob-ladder quilt go ’way from hyuh to lay ’cross somebody else bed.... Umph!”

“Who?” commented Pinkey, sympathetically. “You ain’ need to grumble.... De onles’ thing I ever win, was a li’l can o’ cundense milk one time.... Sho’ ’nough. No playin’,” she went on, trying to convince them in spite of their laughter “’Twus to a singin’ cawntes’ at de Red Bean Row, yonder in Freetown.... An’ w’en I got home an’ went to open de cundense milk; de thing had done turn so sour, I was compel to th’ow it away.”

Becoming impatient over the long delay and the amusing gossip of the women, Duckery asked them:

“Y’all goin’ stay hyuh an’ talk all night ’bout bad luck; an’ tell each-another ’bout all de things you done los’?... If evvything done finish, I’m goin’ th’ow dese papers out my hat an’ go ’way from hyuh.”

Carmelite took his hat and told him to wait. She had a little surprise for everybody. She had a nice cake she made for the occasion, and she wanted each one to have a piece of cake and some coffee “to console dey feelin’s for not winnin’ de quilt.” Then afterwards, they could all go to the wake together.

The announcement brought a smile to every face. Dink began playing on the comb with renewed animation; and the room buzzed with merry laughter and friendly chatter as Carmelite went back to get the refreshments.

Going into the kitchen in a happy frame of mind, she called to Gussie cheerfully:

“Who you reckon had de lucky number to win de quilt, Gussie?”

There was no response to her question. Gussie was sound asleep in his chair beside the stove. She decided that it was best not to wake him until after the refreshments were served. Then when everybody was ready to leave, she would call him and give him the quilt to take home to Aunt Fisky.

Carmelite took a knife from the safe drawer and tiptoed over to the table to cut the cake. The plate was empty. Nothing on it but a few scattered crumbs to tell that just a short while before it held a splendid duck-egg cake.

Could she believe her eyes? There was only one person to suspect, she told herself. And that person was Gussie. Nobody else had been in the kitchen since the cake was put on the table to cool.... To think he would do a mean, deceitful trick like that, after she was kind enough to let him come in out of the rain and sit by her stove to get dry.... And not a single piece left to offer her friends, after she just got through telling them about her good, rich duck-egg cake!... What would they think of her?

With a sudden resolve, she hurried over to Gussie and grabbed him by the shoulders with both hands.

“Wake up hyuh! You nasty, low-down rogue.... Befo’ I pound you ’bout de head wid a billet o’ wood!” She muttered with restrained passion, shaking him roughly. “W’at you mean, prowlin’ ’round my kitchen an’ puttin’ yo’ filt’y han’s on things w’at ain’ b’lonks to you?... Wake up an’ git out o’ hyuh, I tell you!”

Gussie opened his eyes and looked at her half dazed; wondering who she was, and what the rough treatment meant. His mind was not clear and he seemed uncertain of his whereabouts.

“Don’t you hyeah w’at I say?” Carmelite shouted, trying to pull him off the chair.

“Don’ play so rough,” Gussie pleaded, struggling to free himself. “I ain’ goin’ bother nobody, settin’ hyuh by de stove till I git dry.”

“You mus’ be a drunken fool!” Carmelite answered hotly. “After you done et up all my good cake,—thinkin’ I’m goin’ leave you stay hyuh comfatubble; an’ I gotta go younder befo’ all dem people in de room, wid a empty plate?... No’n deed, Lawd!” She vociferated, hearing the sound of footsteps approaching. “So you better come on an’ git off dis chair befo’ I make dem mens drag yo’ nasty body thoo dis house an’ th’ow you in de street unmerciful!... You hyeah?”

Soongy and Pinkey stood in the door looking on in blank amazement, wondering what the difficulty was, and asking how Gussie happened to come in without anybody seeing him.

Carmelite gave a dramatic recital of Gussie’s early arrival, his wretched condition, and her willingness to give him shelter on account of her pity for Aunt Fisky. She told how he promised to stay out of the room until after the raffle was over; how she came out to tell him that his number had won the quilt; how she went to cut the cake and made the startling discovery that Gussie had eaten all of it, leaving her nothing to offer her friends except “a pot full o’ black coffee an’ plain cistun water to drink widout nothin’ to eat.”

There was only one thing to do, Soongy declared emphatically. Carmelite was too foolish, wasting time multiplying words over ole no-count Gussie.... Nobody could do her a dirty trick like that and sit to his ease in front of her stove.... Who?... Talkin’ about it wouldn’t do no good.... “Hands was de inst’uments to start things movin’.” ... If one woman’s pair of hands couldn’t manage ole drunken Gussie, she bet three “wimmin’s six black hands wouldn’ miss takin’ charge of him to land him out-doors in de high road whah he could scuffle wid his cawnshunce aft’ he done come thoo.”

Gussie looked from one to the other, uneasily; as though he were trying to assure himself what the commotion was about.

“Ain’t no need to look so pityful, an’ try an’ say you ain’ did nothin,” Pinkey told him, going over to his chair and seeming to adjust herself for the coming exertion. “Yo’ time done come to vacate dis kitchen,” she went on with assumed authority. “An’ Pinkey Clay right hyuh to tussle wid you.... Come on, Soongy,” she commanded. “You grab hold ’is laigs to keep ’im from kickin’.... An’ you git to de middle, Carm’lite, to keep ’im from bendin’-in.... An’ I know w’en Pinkey Clay two han’s git fasten ’round ’is th’oat, he sho goin’ keep still.... An’ I dare ’im to w’imper!... Come on, ole slow niggers,—git yo position!” She called with impatience, determined to carry out her strategy without further delay.

After a few seconds of strenuous tugging and lifting, the unresisting, half-bewildered Gussie was being hurried towards the front door in haughty triumph. As they passed through the front room, the surprised members, thinking the unique spectacle was a feature of amusement provided for their entertainment, greeted the procession with peals of laughter and great excitement.

Who could it be?... The thing looked too heavy to be a stuffed man, because all the women were bending.... Maybe it was a robber, Carmelite found in her house.... What made them want to carry the man out-doors?... Suppose somebody dropped dead in Carmelite’s kitchen?...

So the riot of question and comment continued until the three women came back, after having abruptly deposited their obnoxious burden on the muddy road, a short distance from the house, “to go hunt sattafaction whah-ever he wan’ look for it.”

“W’at you goin’ do if Gussie come back?” Bennee inquired, when Carmelite had finished giving a graphic account of the mysterious proceeding; every minor detail stressed with elocutionary fervor for their sympathetic understanding.

Gussie knew better than to come back, she informed them. ’Specially after the way all their three pair of hands had worked on him.... Gussie wasn’t goin’ consider comin’ back, now that the rain done stopped, and he was out-doors where he could realize that he wasn’t cripple complete, to hinder him from keepin’ on goin’.

“But leave ole Gussie in Gawd han’s,” Carmelite concluded with willing resignation. “An’ all y’all members come wid me to de kitchen an’ drink some coffee; so we kin hurry ’way from hyuh an’ go yonder to Tempe wake.”

Eager to dispense with any mention of Gussie for the time being, and wanting her friends to enjoy what remained of the hospitality planned for them, Carmelite hurried them to the kitchen and began serving coffee; laughing good-naturedly as she made amusing apologies for the “skimpy li’l refreshnin’ foods;” thanking them for “helpin’ her out so nice”; and drinking with everyone to the “big success” of the raffle.

When Gussie recovered from his dull bewilderment and found himself out on the street, alone in the mud and darkness; he tried to collect his wits and see if he could explain what everything was about. He remembered his long walk in the storm down to the old man Hooblitz’s place at the edge of the woods; recalling more vividly than anything else, the unfriendly greeting of the old man, his cross ugly humor, and the mean way that old Hooblitz hurried him out into the driving rain.

He also had a faint remembrance of a welcome drink with Chicken-Volsin, somewhere along the road. But it was somewhat hazy. Not near as clear as the recollection of himself hurrying on through the rain to see about winning the quilt at Carmelite’s raffle, so he could take it home to Aunt Fisky and make the old lady feel pleased.

Then he remembered Carmelite’s kitchen, and the nice warm fire in the stove; and how good he felt when his clothes began to get dry; and the good cup of hot coffee Carmelite gave him just before he fell asleep. But after that, he could recall nothing more until the time he woke up and found Carmelite shaking him and calling him names, and talking so loud that Pinkey and Soongy came out and pitched into him, before he could get his right presence of mind and keep them from over-coming him, the same as if he was chillun.

Why they carried him out-doors and dumped him in the street, he couldn’t understand to save his soul. Carmelite must have some grudge against him, and was mad because he came to the raffle. She didn’t want him to win the quilt; and that’s the way she fixed it up to git rid of him. But didn’t he have as much right to be there as anybody else? Wasn’t his dime just as good as anybody else’s money?... But maybe it was a good thing. He had no business going. It served him right,—running with niggers all the time and expecting them to treat him like their own kind.... But old man Hooblitz was white. Look how he treated him?... What difference did it make after all? White or colored,—nobody gave a damn for him. All Gritny knew who Gussie Fisky was; but that didn’t make them act no kinder, and try to show him how to better his poor condition....

Suddenly realizing that his troubled meditation was growing into a feeling of stupid self-pity and morbid resentment, he looked up nervously at the few faint glimmering stars in the murky sky, wondering where he would go to rid himself of his unhappy mood and forget his utter loneliness.

Remembering Tempe’s wake, he started off down the quiet street to the New Hope church. He went stumbling along aimlessly over the muddy street-crossings and puddles of water on the low uneven banquettes, not caring whether the road was wet or dry, or how splashed and bedraggled his clothes became.

When he reached the church corner he was greeted by the blinking lights from the church windows and the wistful singing of the members inside; and the thought of human contact, however casual or momentary it might be, caused him to smile and hurry on; knowing how glad he would be to hear the sound of some friendly voice and feel the warm touch of a sympathetic hand.

As he started up the rickety steps of the church, he stopped half way to listen to the wave of melancholy song that came flowing out into the darkness. It made him shiver with a strange feeling of sadness as he caught a few words of the mournful wail and thought of their portentous meaning....

“Death’s goin’-a lay his cold, icy han’ on me....”

He heard their full rich voices repeat the somber message over and over. The slow, majestic movement of the chant rising and surging over them like a flood of melody, lifting their emotional souls to heights of poignant ecstasy.

But what made them keep on telling Tempe about what Death was going to do? Gussie asked himself; deliberating whether he would go in or wait until the song was finished.

Tempe didn’t need to know anything more about Death.... Tempe was sitting up in the house of death now. And she could tell a heap more about what was going on yonder than anybody sitting up in the church, singing about it.... But maybe they were trying to tell their own self something about Death.... The way Death was going to come up on them when their time came for crossing over....

“Hell! I don’ feel like goin’ up in yonder an’ lissen at dat kind o’ thing,” he suddenly concluded. “I’m goin’ set hyuh on de step till dey raise some yuther ballet mo’ sattafyin’ to de feelin’s,” he went on, looking about for a dry spot to sit down. “Dey oughta try an’ sing somh’n mo’ pleasin’ over Tempe. ’Stead o’ keep tellin’ ’uh w’at Death goin’ do; after Gawd done seen fit to snatch ’uh away from hyuh so haphazzud.”

After a while the melodious flowing wave began to recede; growing fainter and fainter, until the subdued lament faded away into a low murmuring hum. It was soothing and pleasant, Gussie thought; and he sat listening indolently.

Very soon he heard the velvety sound of a woman’s vibrant contralto voice intone a line of another ballet. One by one the members took up the somber burden, proclaiming the simple words with full-voiced exultation.

Getting up to go in, Gussie stopped suddenly, as the last lines came to him....

The singing irritated him. It made him uncomfortable to think of the unwelcome message. Why did it disturb him, he asked himself. Was it the slow, sad minor tune? Or the cold, direct words of the song?

“Great Gawd A’mighty!” He said to himself, starting to go down the steps. “If da’s de onles’ kind o’ singin’ dey goin’ do hyuh tonight; ’tain no pleasure for me to linger hyuh.... Shucks! I’m goin’ yonder ’cross de Green an’ lay down an’ sleep.”

Trying to forget his disappointment, he began to whistle a cheerful tune and started down the street in the direction of the East Green. The rain was over, but the air was damp and chilly; and long fringes of clouds were passing across the moon in slow-moving rifts. The houses along the road were all closed, and everything was dark and still.

What would he tell Aunt Fisky about the quilt, he asked himself. Poor old soul;—he sho counted on bringing it home to her for a nice surprise.... Look like out of five chances, one number sho oughta made him win the thing.... Maybe Carmelite didn’t pick him five numbers for the four-bits he gave her.... And Aunt Fisky needed a good warm quilt, too.... And needed it more than anybody they had sittin’ up in Carmelite’s house....

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a bell floating across the Green, not very far away. Looking up, he saw the reflection of a head-light on the switch engine coming towards him.

“Mus’ be close on to twelve o’clock,” he remarked casually. “Da’s ’bout de time dat switchin’ engine come up hyuh evvy night to pull freight off Morgan W’arf.... Lemme hurry up; an’ I kin see my way thoo de mud, clean home, w’ile dat light shinin’ ’cross de Green. ’Cause dat ole crawfish pon’ sho is a nasty place for mud an’ slush, aft’ a hard rain like we bin had tonight.... Ole switch engine, you sho struck it right for Gussie dis time....” He went on talking aloud; quickening his pace in order to get over the track before the engine reached him.

Hurrying on, he looked again to see how far away the engine was.... He could make it across the track easy enough.... The engine wasn’t moving very fast.... A few steps more, and he would be over the switch before the engine reached the corner.

The reflection from the head-light showed nearly half-way across the Green. He could see the water from the duck pond all over the road, clean up to the front gate of his house. He recognized the old house by the thin little piece of light he saw blinking through the leaves of the castor oil bushes growing by the window.... Aunt Fisky must be up yet.... She didn’t leave no candle burning when she went to bed.... She couldn’t be sick?... Maybe she was waiting to see if he had the quilt.... Poor ole soul,—she sho would be sorry to know he didn’t win the thing....

Seeing the engine still a few feet away, he started to run; impatient to get over the track before the long line of box cars blocked the way and kept him waiting in the mud and dark. He felt confident that he would be able to clear the track with perfect safety, just as he had done it many a night.

But a sinister, opposing fate decreed that Gussie’s final hour had come. A secret snare lay in his path, half-buried in the hard, unyielding mud.

There it lay hidden in the dark, sticking up like a waiting noose to catch his hurrying foot: a treacherous loop of rusty wire discarded from a bale of hay, dropped on the road by a passing wagon; or thrown there by some careless hand,—how long ago, no one could tell.

A running jump, and he’d clear the track!... But tripping on the wire, he was thrown headlong across the rail; his unloved, unregarded body falling an instant victim to the murderous wheels of the heedless engine.

The morning after the raffle at Carmelite’s house, the East Green was in a veritable fever of excitement. Such a number of things had happened, it seemed that all the neighbors of the Green were out-of-doors discussing the strange events. Some amused, others genuinely distressed; all amazed and amazingly voluble.

Nobody appeared to be concerned about work. Women on their way to market stopped at front gates to laugh about the “upsetment” Gussie caused at the raffle. Some stood on street corners rehearsing the account of Tempe’s mysterious drowning in the well, and the new pleasure that awaited them at her approaching funeral. While others spoke in awed tones of the disorderly conduct of Gussie at Carmelite’s house, and the disastrous fate that followed him on his way home.

Where did he go after the women carried him out of Carmelite’s kitchen and left him on the street? They asked one another. Nobody remembered seeing him at Tempe’s wake.... Maybe Gussie was drunk when the engine knocked him down?...

And what made them leave him out there on the track alone? Didn’t nobody on the engine know they had runned over a man?... Who found the body first, and went and carried Aunt Fisky the bad news?

So the comment and questioning continued. But no one seemed to have any definite knowledge of the sad tragedy. All Carmelite knew was what Aunt Fisky had told her when she went to bring her the quilt, early that morning. The old woman said she got up about six o’clock; and when she opened the gate to let the ducks out to the crawfish pond, she saw a crowd of people standing by the switch, across the Green. She went over to see what had happened, and they told her that Gussie had been run over by the switch engine sometime during the night. That just a short while before, the man in charge of the switch lights found the body when he was going his rounds; and they were waiting for the coroner to come before the body could be moved.

Carmelite told how she remained with Aunt Fisky, helping her to get the house in readiness, “makin’ evvything look nice for Gussie w’en dey fetched de body home.”

“Po’ ole soul, she mus’ bin bowed down heavy!” Mozella commented feelingly.

“No she ain’t,” Carmelite answered. “Aun’ Fisky sho is got de right un’stannin’ ’bout de way Gussie runned up on Death, an’ went ’way from hyuh wid nobody ’round ’im.... She say Gawd was jus’ natchally watchin’ ove’ ’im careful. Right hyuh in dis Green.... An’ knowed all ’bout de danger comin’ up on Gussie in de darkness.... Knowed it good.... ’Cause Gawd bin watchin’ Gussie for a long time. An’ tol’ ’uh He was hol’in Gussie right in ’Is han’s.... Waitin’ till de sperret command ’Im to cut Gussie down....”

“Dey ain’ goin’ hol’ de wake in de church, is dey?” one of the women asked, incredulously.

“W’at business dey got bringin’ Gussie up in inny church?” Carmelite asked abruptly; surprised at her friend’s display of ignorance. “Evvybody know old sinful Gussie ain’ never bin no Chrishtun.... Preachin’ ove’ ’im now ain’ goin’ do no good; yonder whah he walkin’ munks all dem heavy swingein’ flames, tawmentin’ his po’ soul an’ body.”

“An’ I bet ole no-count Gussie ain’ left a dry nickel to pay de un’taker for ridin’ ’im down to de graveyard, either,” commented Soongy, shaking her head reflectively.

Yes he did. Carmelite assured her. The secret society was going to take charge of the funeral. Gussie belonged to the “Nights o’ Peefus.” And word had been sent to all the members to come to the wake at Aunt Fisky’s house that night. Gussie would be sure to have a fine funeral; she declared with authority. Because the Peefus Lodge always had a fine band of music. “An’ de secaterry already done give out de news dat Gussie died finanshul.”

Feeling satisfied with having acquainted her friends with all these important details, Carmelite left them; saying that she was going to Lethe’s house to deliver a message from Aunt Fisky.

Eager to bestow upon Gussie any small honor that would lend added dignity to the farewell ceremony, the old woman asked Carmelite to go and see some of the friends who had played with Gussie in early childhood, and ask them to come and serve as pall-bearers at the funeral. Having notified all but one, Carmelite asked Lethe to send word to Felo and get his promise to be present the next day. This duty accomplished, she told Lethe that she was going home “to git down on her knees an’ wipe up all dem mud tracks on her flo’. An’ try an’ chastise her cawnshunce for de mean way she set to po’ Gussie. Not knowin’ de po’ soul was jus’ ’bout ready to stumble into Hell-fire.”

“Ain’ it true?” Lethe corroborated with thorough understanding. “Dis whole life ain’ resemble nothin’ mo’n a fatal mat’en-nee.” (Matinee.)

Flattered with having the honor of being the first one to acquaint Felo with the startling account of Gussie’s death, Lethe lost no time in hurrying to Miss Barbara’s grocery store to communicate with him by telephone. She knew that Felo would just be giving Mr. Amos his breakfast; that it would be the best time to catch him at home, before he went out to market. She was sure that he had not heard from anyone about Tempe’s drowning; so she would tell him all the particulars, and all about the funeral which was to take place that day; and maybe Felo would come over to Gretna early, and they would have a little visit at her house before they went to the graveyard.

Such astounding news from home so early in the morning, served to arouse Felo’s excitable temperament to unrestrained emotional flights. Mr. Amos sat drinking his coffee, listening to Felo’s exclamations of surprise, waiting patiently for the conversation to end.

When Lethe finished her long harangue, Felo hung up the receiver nervously and came into the dining-room, his eyes staring with a startled expression.

“Dah bless Gawd!” he exclaimed; taking a seat across the room, near the kitchen door. “I ain’ never knowed it to fail; long as I kin remember,” he went on, with a sweeping gesture of the right arm. “Evvy time you see me dream ’bout fresh meat, you sho find out it ain’ goin’ be mo’n a day pass by, befo’ I hyeah tell ’bout somebody done died.... An’ now I bin had a dream ’bout fresh meat, dis make three nights successful, han’-runnin’.... An’ hyuh come de news from Lethe dis mawnin’, ’bout two mo’ people done passed out, yonder in Gritny....”

“Never mind your dreams,” Mr. Amos interrupted with an amused smile. “Tell me who’s dead. And you can think about your fresh meat afterwards.”

“Go ’head, an’ laugh much as you please,” Felo answered, a trifle provoked. “Y’all w’ite folks jus’ alike.... All time ready to laugh at somh’n you don’ un’stan....”

“Well, let us hear what Lethe had to say, and maybe I will be better able to interpret your dream,” Mr. Amos encouraged him.

“Da’s de very thing I wan’t tell you. If you only keep still, an’ stop ty’in’ up my pro-gress wid so many on-nec’sary queshtun,” he remonstrated playfully; eager to recount Lethe’s sensational chronicle of disaster.

Three deaths in less than a week’s time! He began solemnly.... Ole Aunt Milly from down the bayou.... Pulled up in a skiff, all the way from Peach Orchard.... Comin’ all that long distance, rolled up in a blanket.... And buried in a grave half-full of rain water! He went on enumerating the lugubrious incidents; falling into a sort of chant, wavering between two monotonous tones.

Then Tempe, fallin’ in a well and gettin’ drownded so curuss.... And nobody able to get the straight understandin’ about it.... And smack on top of dat: Gussie Fisky, cut down by a switch engine haphazzud.... Right in front of his own house, in the black night.... And nobody close by to carry the news.... Umph-umph! Went the vigorous grunt of contemplation.... What was the world comin’ to?... These Gritny people better make haste and pray. Before Gawd reached down and snatched at ’um; and they come to open their eyes in Tawment.... Beggin’ for mercy when it wasn’t no use.... “Yas Lawd!” he concluded with a deep sigh. “It sho look like sudden deaths is gittin’ pop’lar.”

Knowing Felo’s eager readiness to have a part in every “popular” demonstration of this kind; Mr. Amos asked him how he was going to manage to be present at all the ceremonies.

No. He wasn’t going to take part in Tempe’s burying, Felo explained. They didn’t need him to speed Tempe over.... Tempe was a Chrishtun; and they would have a whole multitude of wimmins there to raise big excitement over her.... He was going to stay home and try to “sun the house,” and wipe up the floors.... Try and see if he couldn’t kill that strong miljew scent Mr. Amos said he found about the house the last couple of days.... Complainin’ and worryin’ about the dinin’room smellin’ mouldy.... And the rain bin fallin’ so steady lately; nobody ain’ goin’ study ’bout openin’ any window to leave in fresh air, damp as ever’thing is out-doors.... Anybody ought to know how that ole grass rug on the floor holds the miljew when the weather be’s rainy.... He was going to stay home and give all his ’tenshun to the house.... If the sun just comed out strong and ’lowed him a chance to work good all day....

But his mind told him that he had to go see Gussie that night.... Gussie was a brother-member of his Lodge. And it was compulsionary for him to be at the wake and go to the funeral.... Aunt Fisky sont him word that she wanted all Gussie’s ole-time playmates to walk ’long-side him for pall-bearers.... So after he got through fixin’ supper, he was goin’ to Gritny, and stay all night; and come back in the evenin’ after the funeral was over.

Fully conscious of the deep importance with which Felo considered his sentimental expedition, and agreeable to leaving him to the enjoyment of his own devices; Mr. Amos told him to take the whole day, and to let the house-cleaning go for another time.

No. He insisted on following his own mind, and getting through with what he had to do, so he would hear no more talk about that play-gone miljew scent in the house; when he got back from Gritny, and wanted to tell about what took place when they put Gussie away.... He couldn’t talk sociable when people kept on makin’ a whole lot of complainin’.... “An’ innyway,—de sun done comed out dis mawnin’, an’ I ain’ goin’ risk puttin’ de thing off no longer.... So gimme some change to go to market an’ buy yo’ li’l foods for dis evenin’.... An’ go ’head to yo’ office, an’ lemme git to my business.”

Mr. Amos gave him the money for the purchases, and was about to leave, when Felo followed him to the door and asked:

“You want some yam sweet potato dis evenin’? Fixed in de oven wid butter an’ milk an’ vunilla essen’, an’ some dem w’ite-o’-aig things you call mush-mallow?”

Mr. Amos gave a smile of assent, remembering this was one of Felo’s boasted specialties, and that it was intended as a delicate compliment.

“An’ you want some smothered poke-chops, an’ stuffed aigplant wid swimps in ’um?” Felo suggested.

“Why do you want to make such a feast?” Mr. Amos asked in surprise. “After you finish all the house-cleaning you say you mean to do, you better rest yourself; if you hope to do any singing at a wake tonight.... Fix the yams, if you care to. But get something else easy to cook.”

“Man, go ’head to yo’ office, for Gawd sake,” Felo told him; provoked at having his show of hospitality received with such marked indifference. “’Tain no use try’n to sattafy some people, w’en dey ain’ never learnt how to ’preshate li’l favors did for ’um wid a free heart.... Go ’head to yo’ office.... An’ you better be glad if you come back hyuh an’ fin’ coffee an’ bread to eat, w’en you git home dis evenin’.”

Left to himself, after he had done his marketing in the neighborhood, it was not long until Felo’s domestic maneuvering was in full swing. Any casual passer-by would have supposed the house was in process of evacuation. Festoons of bed-clothes and barricades of pillows protruded negligently from upstairs windows; scarves and cushions and draperies of many colors flaunted in reckless abandon from down-stairs windows; rugs hung over the side fence, and blankets flapped on the back-yard clothes-line. Everything was brought out to bask in the welcome sunshine and to gather freshness from the pleasant flowing breeze. Filled with abundant energy and the unflagging desire to please, Felo was determined to overlook no single detail about the house. Work don’t never hurt nobody if they goes at it with the right sperret, he told himself.... He sho was goin’ to try his best to keep people from thinkin’ his boss was runnin’ a li’l ole picayune boa’din’-house.... This house was a rezzident; and he sho was goin’ keep it lookin’ so.... And Mr. Amos never need feel ’shamed to have any comp’ny try to ’zamine his toys and things, and all them “heavy-heavy-hangs-ove’-yo’-head” he had on the wall; after Felo got done playin’ with ’um....

When he came home in the evening, Mr. Amos was struck by the orderly appearance of everything. The rugs were fresh-looking and arranged with care; the floors and the furniture were rubbed and polished; bright flowers were on the piano and tables; and the whole house looked cheerful and inviting.

As he walked back to the diningroom he heard the pleasant sound of Felo’s voice, singing at his work in the kitchen.

The words didn’t carry a very cheerful greeting; but the melody was a lovely one; thought Mr. Amos, as he stood listening, waiting until Felo would finish the verse.

“What a strange allurement death and wakes and funerals seem to hold out to him; when at heart he is really of a happy disposition,” Mr. Amos commented, as Felo ended his song and changed to a soft murmuring hum.

Mr. Amos stood looking about the room, waiting for Felo to sing again. Suddenly he became conscious of the odor of pineapple. Wondering where it came from, he soon discovered a large pineapple towering out of the punch bowl on the corner cupboard, and another one standing on a tray on the side table.

“Well, what do you call this?” He asked Felo, not knowing how to regard the unusual decoration.

Felo came in from the kitchen, smiling, wanting to know if everything wasn’t “sattafactual.”

Everything was fine. He was thoroughly pleased; Mr. Amos told him. “But will you kindly tell me why you bought these pineapples and put them in here after this fashion?”

Felo looked at the pineapples thoughtfully, his face assuming a puzzled expression. What was the matter with them? They were nice and fresh.... He never let nobody sell him no cheap rotten fruits.... These pineapples were fine ripe pineapples.... And nobody couldn’t buy no better pineapples for two-bits a piece....

“But you know I never eat pineapples,” Mr. Amos informed him placidly.

“Dah bless Gawd!” Felo exclaimed, abashed; rolling his eyes impressively from one pineapple to the other. “You know, I clean forgot you ain’ never eat pineapple,” he tried to explain. “Gawd knows.” He apologized with deep feeling. “De thing sho did slip my membunce, jus’ like I tell you.”

“And that’s the reason why you bought two pineapples instead of one?” Mr. Amos asked, teasingly.

“You ain’ try’n to raise no complaint ’bout fo’-bits, is you?” Felo went on. “But you know, de things look so nice an’ temptin’ w’en I seen ’um on de Dago stan’ dis mawnin’; I thought on w’at I hyeah’d you say,—how dis place smell so mouldy.... So I say: I’m goin’ buy dese pair o’ pineapples an’ put ’um in de room hyuh; an’ I know dey goin’ sho out-stink a billy-goat.... An’ I bet you ain’ smell no miljew scent up in hyuh now. Is you?”

Mr. Amos complimented him on his novel method of disinfecting, but said he preferred to smell the tempting scent that came floating in from the pots.

Felo rolled his eyes appreciatively, saying:

“Well, hurry up an’ set to de table, an’ lemme bring you yo’ li’l foods befo’ yo’ appatite fo’sake you. Evvything ready. So come on an’ eat. An’ maybe I kin go ’way from hyuh soon, w’en I git thoo waitin’ on you.”

Further urging was unnecessary. Mr. Amos knew by the regaling odors coming from the kitchen, that the evening meal would consist of much more than the meager “coffee and bread” which Felo promised in the morning. Having revoked his threat, in spite of the many duties accomplished that day, Felo had exerted himself in preparing a truly noble dinner.

Not satisfied with the simple luxury of eggplant stuffed with shrimp and tomato, seasoned with onion, thyme, parsley and red pepper, macerated with milk and butter, Felo had added the epicurean garnish of rolled toast and grated sapsago cheese. The yam potatoes, crowned with an aureole of golden-brown marshmallows, looked like an arrangement of autumn leaves mottled with sunshine; and Mr. Amos found himself wondering if it were not a bowl of delectable vegetables masquerading as a delicious dessert. The pork chops were smothered in a rich tomato gravy flavored with cloves and lemon peel; a tempting ragout, which Felo assured Mr. Amos, as he placed before him a plate of hot biscuits just out of the oven, “sho will make you rear back an’ smack yo’ lips manful, after you done sopped some o’ dese light biscuits in dis good ole-time Creyall gravy.”

Knowing that Felo at all times looked for more active proof than simple words of praise in appreciation of his culinary efforts, Mr. Amos endeavored to “perish” and “destroy” as much as was humanly possible. Because Felo was most pleased when he saw people “eat good”; and “et like dey bin use to good eatin’.” Feeling that “a dinner table full o’ empty plates an’ dishes was cert’ny mo’ convincin’ den a whole lot o’ col’ overs settin’ up in de ’frigerator.”

When Mr. Amos finished his coffee, he went upstairs to lie down, leaving Felo to “scuffle wid his pots an’ make quick tracks for Gritny.” It was not long before the kitchen boomed with the happy chorus of “De ole sheep done knowed de road”; every now and then a broken cadence floating off through the house like the sound of jubilation:

It was a pleasant sound, and Mr. Amos delayed reading his book as long as the singing continued. As soon as there was silence in the kitchen, he knew that Felo was dressing, and that it would not be long until he was on his way across the river to Gussie’s wake.

If there were two particular forms of divertissement equally cherished by every dweller of the East Green and thereabouts, perhaps the one holding second place would be the fine funeral following a nice wake. Granting this, it was easy to understand why Gussie’s obsequies seemed to offer something of more than ordinary importance. Being a white man, and an outcast among his own color; and a man without religion, and therefore counted a lost soul among his church-going colored companions; they were deeply concerned about how he would be “put away with any right kind of form and fashion.” ... Who could they get to preach his funeral if the colored elder didn’t want to come?... Maybe Aunt Fisky would get the white folks to bring the priest to say prayers and swing smoke over Gussie and sprinkle him with holy water?...

Conjectural comment was at its height when Felo arrived. And curious to know the full particulars, like all the other members present, he asked Aunt Fisky if she had done anything regarding the funeral ceremonies. She told him quietly that she didn’t want any priest or revyun of any kind to come up in her house.... She wasn’t no hypocrite.... Everybody in Gritny knew that Gussie never was no church member.... And now that Gussie was ’ceased, there wasn’t no use for any elder to stand up and preach about his sinful ways.... It couldn’t help Gussie none. And what good would it do anybody else?... They ain’t got to tell Gawd about it; ’cause Gawd already knowed what Gussie was. So He didn’t have to listen to a whole lot o’ random.... And besides, she didn’t believe in rakin’-up people’s wrong-doin’ after they gone. The members could sing over Gussie much as they pleased. And the man from the Peefus Lodge could say the Ow Father and read something out his book. And that’s all she cared about.... And she was goin’ to see that they did it, too.... Gussie had dragged on long enough with a whole lot o’ racket and confusion. So she made up her mind that she was goin’ to see him go ’way from this earth quiet and respectable.... She wasn’t goin’ to find no fault ’bout havin’ a brass band; ’cause she knowed Gussie always liked music and was too proud to walk behind a purrade. So, if people cared anything at all about her and Gussie feelin’s, she cert’ny would look to see them respect her wishes in this lonesome interprise....

Felo said he would tell everyone present, and promised to see that her wishes would be obeyed. He went over to talk to Carmelite, where she was sitting in a corner, looking very dejected. She shook hands with him and listened silently as he repeated what Aunt Fisky had told him.

“An’ you sho kin count on me, Mr. Felo, to help you make dese niggers do de right thing,” Carmelite assured him feelingly.

“You goin’ set up all night?” Felo asked her.

“Sho Gawd is,” she declared with fervor. “Bad as I feel; I’m goin’ stay right hyuh, an’ fix de coffee an’ do all I kin, befo’ I go home to my house.”

“W’a’s de matter?” Felo asked wonderingly. “You ain’ sick, is you?”

No; she wasn’t ’zacly sick; Carmelite told him. She was jus’ feelin’ down-casted.... Sittin’ there an’ lookin’ at Gussie, an’ callin’ back to her mind what took place to her house last night.... Gussie eatin’ up all her duck-egg cake with nobody but himself, yonder in her kitchen.... And hyuh a whole crowd o’ people come to eat crackers and coffee over Gussie; and he layin there on the table and ain’t knowin’ a thing ’bout what was goin’ on....

“An’ lookin’ so natchal, too. Widout any puttin’-on a-tall,” came Frozine’s sympathetic comment.

“Ain’t it true,” agreed Mozella. “For a man bin cut half-in-two like he is, Gussie sho do look natchal.”

“An’ ain’ he got a nice pale color?” remarked Soongy.

“Sho is,” declared Nookie. “I ain’ never took notice till now, how pale Gussie complexion.”

“Look like Death done bleached his skin mo’ lighter,” Carmelite reflected pensively.

“An’ Gussie sho look like somebody diffunt, layin’ up there strouded in dem purrade clo’se he got on,” said Pinkey, taking a seat along-side of Carmelite.

At sight of Aunt Fisky coming in from the back room, all comment ceased for a while. She came over where the women were sitting, and gave Carmelite a pan full of orange leaves, asking her to pin them on the sheet “droped” over the table where Gussie was lying. Carmelite and several of the women got down on their knees and began pinning the orange leaves on the sheet, making a border in the form of a cross all around the bier.

At length, a low mournful humming began to tremble in the room as the women went on with their work in the dim weird light from the flickering candles, standing in bottles on the mantelpiece and on the table at Gussie’s head and feet.

Before long the old house was vibrating to the rolling sound of

Their voices pulsating with unusual fervor and their minds thrilled with the import of the words:

One by one the neighbors continued to come in, each one bringing along from home a chair to sit on; knowing that Aunt Fisky would not be able to accommodate them, and that the crowd would increase as the night went on.

Felo began looking about eagerly to see if Lethe had come. What kept her so late? He asked himself.... He would run around to her house to see what was the matter.... Now was a good time. The singing was at its height.... Nobody would miss him....

Felo lost no time, but hurried on across the Green and down the street to Lethe’s house. As he opened the gate, he was surprised to find her sitting on the gallery steps, leaning against the post in the darkness.

“W’at you doin’, settin’ out hyuh in de jew all alone?” He asked abruptly. “Who you waitin’ for? Settin’ out hyuh in de dark, wid dis chill air blowin’ ’cross yo’ shoulders, an’ nothin’ on to puhteck you from de night dampness?”

“I’m waitin’ hyuh for Lizzie Cole to come,” Lethe answered, quietly.

“Settin’ out hyuh on-cuncerned, waitin’ for ole loud-mouth Lizzie; an’ Aun’ Fisky an’ evvybody waitin’ yonder for you to come to Gussie wake; an’ had to git me to come see w’at keepin’ you?” He complained. “W’at kind o’ game dis is you play’n, inny-way?” He demanded with mock seriousness. “You ain’ inten’ to go to de wake tonight?”

“I gotta wait hyuh till Lizzie come wid dem chickens, befo’ I kin go,” Lethe answered calmly.

“W’at chickens you talkin’ ’bout?” He asked impatiently. “I don’ know nothin’ ’bout any chickens.... Ole crazy Lizzie ain’ thinkin’ ’bout bringin’ no chickens to Gussie wake, is she?... An’ you ain’ wan’ play fool an’ uphol’ ’uh in ’uh devilment?”

“Felo, for Gawd sake set down, an’ don’ talk so hasty,” Lethe told him with annoyance. “Lizzie comin’ hyuh to bring de chickens she wan’ me keep for ’uh till she come back from sugar-grindin’, yonder whah she goin’ to Lafoosh plantation.”

“W’en she goin’?” Felo asked, sitting down beside Lethe on the step.

“Dey got a whole crowd o’ wimmins goin’ in de mawnin’; an’ I spec’ Lizzie goin’ ’long wid’ um’ on de Morgan train.”

“An’ she had to wait till dis late in de night to go ketch chickens an’ fetch ’um hyuh to bother you wid ’um?... W’at make ole lazy Chester couldn’ brought ’um hyuh in de day-time?”

“Chester gone away,” Lethe informed him.

“Who? Chester gone sugar-grindin’!” Felo exclaimed, laughing with great amusement. “Lizzie Cole better hurry an’ go yonder an’ look after Chester, befo’ some dem green country niggers sasharate de po’ boy body an’ soul, w’en he workin’ munks de mens, cuttin’ sugar cane in de big open fiel’.”

“W’at make you all time wan’ be so scoffish?” Lethe asked him. “Chester ain’ big enough to take care himself?... Chester ain’ simple.... An’ you ain’ need to worry ’bout Chester. ’Cause Chester ain’ gone to no country to cut no sugar cane.... Whah Chester gone ain’ nobody business. So try’n keep still, an’ don’ be talkin’ all ove’ yo’ mouth till you know somh’n ’bout people mo’ better’n guessin’ an’ supposin’.”

“But no!” Felo faltered; surprised at her unexpected defensive attitude. “Since w’en you done come to be mixed up in Chester business so, you gotta set to me like dis?”

“Felo, is you a plumb fool all by yo’-self?” Lethe asked him quietly. “W’at I wan’ do, havin’ any traffic wid chillun like Chester?... You ain’ got to come hyuh an’ ’cuse me, suspicious like dat....”

“Chillun, man, or boy; or w’atsome-ever you wan’ call it,” he interrupted sullenly. “But look like y’all two mus’ be got some kind o’ secut un’stannin’ wid each-another; w’en you so quick to take up de queshtun, an’ ack like you know somh’n you don’ wan’ tell ’bout.... But da’s alright,” he went on, with an aggrieved air. “You ain’ compel to lemme know w’at goin’ on.... W’en you got Chester right hyuh so conveenyun all de time; an’ I’m way yonder ’cross de river, countin’ on evvything bein’ straight, an’ trus’in all things is fair an’ square.... You ain’ compel to tell me nothin’, if da’s de way yo’ mind lead you....”

“Felo, for Gawd sake, shet yo’ mouth an’ keep still,” Lethe told him; getting up from the steps and starting to go into the house. “Hyuh come Lizzie, now.... So come in-doors, if you wan’ find out ’bout Chester.... Leave Lizzie tell you ’bout him. She ain’ goin’ hol’ nothin’ back from you.... Hyuh she is, now. Go ’head inside; an’ don’ look so hateful.”

Lizzie arrived with a great bunch of squawking chickens in each hand. Seeing the gate closed, and unable to help herself, she called out boisterously:

“Whah y’all done lef’ yo’ manners, you can’t come hyuh an’ open dis gate an’ lemme in? You wan’ leave me stay out hyuh all night helpless? Wid all dis mighty roocus dese crazy chickens raisin’ right hyuh in front Lethe door?... Come open dis gate, for Gawd sake. Befo’ some dese inquiztun w’ite folks run up hyuh an’ try to ’res’ Lizzie for robbin’ people hen-roos’ after hours like dis is.... Stop yo’ grinnin’, an’ come hyuh an’ gimme a han’,” she commanded.

Felo hurried to open the gate and let her in, and Lethe led the way to the back yard; both of them laughing heartily at Lizzie’s amusing speech and the antics she performed as she deposited the squawking chickens on the ground. Felo helped her untie the strings from their feet, and after they were put away for the night and Lethe saw that the chicken house door was made fast, the party went into the kitchen and sat down to talk.

After scanning the room inquisitively, Lizzie got up and helped herself to a dipper of water from the bucket standing on the table; then kicked off her shoes and made herself ready to enjoy any form of entertainment the night would offer. Seeing that she was in a loquacious humor, Lethe encouraged her to talk of Chester; knowing how curious Felo was to learn something of his whereabouts. At the mention of his name, Felo asked if Chester was going to the wake.

“No,” Lizzie answered quietly; then added with a grandiloquent air, that Mr. Frackshun was trav’lin’.

“To Lafourche?” Felo inquired.

“No. To furren parts,” Lizzie told him, enigmatically.

“To the sugar-grindin’?” Felo persisted.

No. Mr. Frackshun didn’t care nothin’ ’bout playin’ in a cane field; Lizzie informed him facetiously. Mr. Frackshun said he found cuttin’ cane too bitterly against the constitution.... ’Tain’ everybody kin stand it like wimmins bin use to it.... An’ innyway, Mr. Frackshun said he was afraid of his feets gittin’ fros’-bitten, cold mawnin’s like they had in the country.... And a cane-knife was such a dang’us-lookin’ weepon, Mr. Frackshun said he couldn’t see how he was goin’ to git use to totin’ one....

What was Lizzie tryin’ to make out of Chester? Felo asked her reprovingly. Since when did Chester come to be so high-up and particular that he could pick and choose the kind of work he wanted to do, when niggers in Gritny was glad to do any kind of work that come to their hand, tight as money was this time of the year?... Was she satisfied to listen to Chester’s crazy talk, and leave him stay home playin’ weak and timmasun, layin’ up on her all winter long doin’ nothin’? While she was scufflin’ yonder in the frosty cane-field, workin’ her poor fool-self to death till way after Christmas, when the grindin’ was over?... Lizzie must think Chester was some kind of jew’lry had to be locked up in the house to keep people from runnin’ off with....

“But you know de ole house so rickety an’ lavadated, Mr. Felo, da’s de very reason I sont Chester ’way from hyuh,” Lizzie told him with impressive seriousness. “My li’l ole shanty ain’ no safe place to hide nothin’ w’en dese Gritny w’ite folks commences plund’in an’ searchin’.... An’ jus’ like you say,—Chester so simple an’ timmasun,—Lizzie ain’ feel like she wan’ take no chances.... So da’s how come she make de jew’lry take a depahter.” (Departure.)

“Lawd! Lizzie, you sho is a circus,” exclaimed Lethe, laughing heartily.

Felo looked puzzled and annoyed, and scowled at Lethe, wondering at her amusement. What did Lizzie mean? He asked her impatiently. Did she think he came there to waste time and listen to a whole lot of riddles and humbug?... He wasn’t no chillun.... If she wanted to talk, why didn’t she talk plain and natchal; and not try to talk a mouth full of mystery nobody wasn’t able to ’lucidate....