He had just returned from China with an all-Chinese picture which began in the Botanical Gardens of Hong-kong, concluded its first reel at the Temple of Confucius in Canton--“One Minute Please!”--sailed down the Canton River on a Chinese flower boat, and concluded its fifth reel with a public execution on the northern frontier of the Mongolian Empire under the shadow of the Great Wall.
He was now taking a two days’ rest in the office on Fifth Avenue and looking around for more worlds to conquer when, lo!--
“Niggers!” he bawled, springing to his feet and slapping the back of Peter Pellet, his camera artist. “An All-Coon Cast! Pack up your night-shirt, Peter! Us for the slimy cypress sloughs of the Sunny South!”
Peter Pellet’s participation in Rouke’s wild innovations had taught him that life, like his name, was a pill. He swallowed it loyally, but he reserved the inalienable right to petition and protest whenever Rouke grabbed him by the nose, pried open his mouth, and offered him another bitter dose.
“Aw ferget it!” he began. “A nigger can’t act. The nigger minstrels are all white men.”
“Sure!” Rouke agreed. “But they imitate niggers. That’s what makes them so funny. Nigger minstrels make a hit all over this country. Oh, sugar! the latest line of laugh looseners! Be ready, Pete! We leave on the night train.”
“May I ask what part of the South you expect to invade?” Peter inquired in a sour tone.
“We’ll honor the Pelican State with our presence,” Rouke grinned. “I know a man who knows niggers just like he had been a red corpuscle of their blood and had gone all through ’em. His name is Gaitskill, and he’s the loudest tick at Tickfall, Louisiana.”
Four days later Mr. Shirley Rouke sat beside the mahogany table in the office of Colonel Tom Gaitskill, president of the Tickfall bank, and told him of his plans.
“Do you know anything about negroes, Mr. Rouke?” Gaitskill inquired.
“Not a dang thing!” Rouke grinned. “Their faces and hands are black and I presume they are also black under their clothes, but I don’t know. All of them seem to answer promptly to the name of George. The Pullman porters are accommodating everywhere except in Mississippi, which has an anti-tipping law. I spent a month in New Orleans about twenty years ago, but didn’t get chummy with any smokes.”