“Whar you been at dat you don’t know nothin’?” demanded Vinegar in disgusted tones. “Some of dem niggers whut represent bofe sides come to my chu’ch to prayer-meetin’ last night, an’ dey got in a fight at de door of de meetin’-house!”
“Dey oughter be churched!” Skeeter exclaimed.
“Dey would hab been churched, only I agonized wid ’em an’ got ’em to bury de hatchet. But I ain’t runnin’ no risks. Dey buried de hatchet, but dey left de handle stickin’ out!”
“Dat’s bad news, Rev’un,” Skeeter sighed. “Dis here am de official headquarters of bofe sides.”
“Bad luck, Skeeter!” Vinegar bellowed as he started toward the door. “You better hang a piece of black crape on de Hen-Scratch door and go fishin’ wid me. Dem niggers will shore rough-house you when dey git started, an’ you’ll be same as dead.”
Vinegar departed, leaving uneasiness and anxiety where confidence had been.
In the evening, the saloon rapidly filled with negroes who came in from the country. They were all hardy men, with muscles of oak and iron—one-shirt, one-gallus fellows of the baser sort, who despised the colored man who lived in town, wore a derby hat, sported a high collar, and was stuck up. These were all sullen and devoted adherents of Pap Curtain, and after listening for a while to their bitter anarchistic talk, Figger Bush became frightened of his own supporters and wished there was some easy and unostentatious way to resign.
“Dem fellers is rambunctious,” he whispered fearfully to his partner. “Dey comes at eve’ything butt-end fust an’ hits it wid a jolt. I wish I hadn’t never et outen de same spoon wid ’em.”
“Don’t stir ’em up too much, Figger,” Skeeter urged him. “Mebbe when some of my gang comes in dey’ll calm down a little.”
But Skeeter found that when a bull is mad the sight of another bull does not calm his spirit; it rouses him to battle.
A number of town negroes drifted in, took a look at the situation, and drifted quietly out. They had counted the number of Pap’s adherents and had gone for reënforcements, for the saloon was soon filled with men who were loud in their praise of Mustard Prophet, and they outnumbered Pap’s followers three to one.
Pap’s crowd, dusty, ragged, trampish-looking, drew off at one end of the saloon and composed a little, sour, ugly bunch; over against the more dressy Tickfall bunch, they were a sad contrast, and they felt it.