The Red Book Magazine/Volume 20/Number 6/The Scar-Face Company

by Harris Dickson

 

The
Scar-Face Company

A Labor Corporation Exhibits Sunlover
Sam as its prize sample

BY HARRIS DICKSON

Author of “Old Reliable,” “Sunlover Sam,” etc.

A SLUGGISH fog pulsed upward in the deadening, rising like thin smoke amongst the blackened trunks of limbless trees. Sunlover Sam peered across the level acres of half-picked cotton towards a railroad embankment, and the small swamp town beyond. “Miss'ippy must be de udder side o' Kingdom Come; I know it's purty nigh as fer,” he mused. Sam glanced backward uneasily, still looking and still listening for that constable's dog which he had left behind in Alabama—“Terror,” the unforgetting bloodhound, who knew his scent, and, as the constable had said, could tree him in Kingdom Come.

The negro looked down at his feet and grinned: “Dis here railroad trav'lin' sho is rough on shoes. Cross-ties cuts em up wusser dan de dirt road.”

Sam had got violently separated from his coat when a switchman chunked him out of the freight car. His gingham galluses clung by one button to a partial pair of pants. But his smile clung to him, a thinner smile than was legal tender for confidence—the only legal tender he had brought to Mississippi.

Sam gave his pants a hitch and made for the railroad station, halting on the prudent side of a wire fence. A shanky, overdressed. yellow man—with a profile that looked like gaps in the edge of a hatchet—paced up and down the cinder walk, stopping to blink at Sam through a pair of square-rimmed spectacles. Sam squeezed through the wires. “Mister,” he said, “I wants to go to Vicksburg; when do de train come along?” The yellow negro might as well have been deaf and dumb. A white man stepped out of the station, made some marks on the blackboard and hurried back. The big spec's squinted and said half aloud: “Hour an' twenty minutes late—I got to stay in dis jerkwater town.”

“Mister, I wants to go to Vicksburg,” Sam persisted. The square-rimmed spec's glittered with contempt and silence. Sam grinned amiably: “'Scuse me, Buttermilk; I didn't know you was sour.”

Then he rambled down the track to where some men were loading cotton on a car. A black man in overalls leaned against the platform. “Mister, is you de brakeman on dis train?” asked Sam.

“Uhu.”

“When do she pull out?”

“Mighty few minutes.”

“Lemme crawl in on top o' dat cotton an' make it to Vicksburg?”

“Got any money?” the brakeman whispered. Sunlover shook his head and the brakeman opened up like a hoarse frog: “Nobody can't ride on my train. Yonder go ole Hooker now wid a nigger what he jerked outen a box car.”

Sam ducked under the platform and watched the town marshal leading a forlorn-looking vagrant to the calaboose. “What you reckin he's 'rested fer?”

“Vagunsy.”

“What's dat?”

“Folks what aint got no job an' no money, ole Hooker gives 'em a job on de chain gang.”

“Say he do?” This was cheerful news.

Sam shuffled back towards that glass-eyed negro, and frankly admired his flowered vest, with the pressing club trousers. “Mister, what bizness does you foller?” he inquired.

“Makin' money.”

“Must be a mighty good bizness?”

“I bet you aint never tried it.”

It wasn't what the negro said, so much as his biggity ways, that got Sam riled: “Look here, nigger; jes 'cause you's yaller, an' yo' hair's kinder straight, dat aint gwine to hinder me from bustin ev'y pane o' glass in yo' face.”

And Sam might have busted a few of them, but somebody grabbed his arm. He turned, and saw a policeman's star, bigger than a wagon wheel, and heard the demand: “Nigger, where are you workin'?”

“Nowhar, boss; I been farmin'.”

“Whose plantation?”

“Nobody's; not round here, boss; way over in Alabam'.”

“What are you doin' here?”

“Lookin' fer a place to move.”

“You can't stay here and not work.”

“I aint aimin' to stay; I'm goin' to Vicksburg.”

The freckled hand tightened with a thirty-day grip, and squeezed a laugh out of Sam, like squeezing a whistle out of a rubber doll. Old Hooker smiled. “What are you laughin' at?”

“I wuz jes studyin'; y'all white folks don't know a workin' nigger when you meets up wid him. Zamine dese corns in my han's.'” Sam stood up like an earnest baby and pointed out the callous places. “Dis here corn is from plowin'; dat'n is from pickin' cotton; dis'n is from pullin' fodder; an' dese—I got dem jerkin' de bell cord over a mule. Daint nary loafin' corn on me nowhar—you kin look real good.”

Old Hooker kept smiling and began to let go; the main thing was that he let go, and Sam stood free. “Boss,” he said, “I knowed you wuz jes prankin' wid me; white folks pranks wid me continual.”

“It's all right this time; but I better not catch you here after that train leaves. Fessor,” the marshal said peremptorily to the yellow man, “don't you miss that train. This town is too small for you.”

“Yes sir,” Fessor chuckled as the officer strolled away. “Out-talked him, didn't you?”

“Yas; an' now I got to out-walk him.”

“Whyn't you get on the train?”

“Aint got a cent.”

“No money?”

“Lordee, Mister, money thinks I'm dead.”

Fessor kept blinking and thinking. Presently he beckoned Sam inside the waiting-room and pointed through the window. “See them niggers on that gallery? Go over there an' make 'em give you ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars? Who? Me? How come dey gwine to gimme ten dollars?”

“Go 'long an' git it.” And he shoved Sam through the door.

Sunlover felt like a fool, and looked it, as he zig-zagged half-way across the dusty road. A white-washed shanty faced the railroad tracks; a dozen shaky steps led up to the gallery. The fat man who leaned against the door, the two or three others who sat on boxes and a bench—not one of them resembled a nigger who was itchin' to donate ten dollars unto Samuel. Sunlover glanced over his shoulder, as a doubtful mule wags his ear and looks back when he's expecting a tug on the reins. Fessor gave no sign; Sam hesitated, stopped and returned, “Look here, Mister, what kind o' talk is dis? I can't git ten dollars out o' dem niggers.”

“I can,” Fessor asserted with such confidence that Sunlover's mouth flew open.

“Jes by axin' fer it?” demanded Sam, incredulously.

“No, you aint got to ask for it, not straight out. Let 'em think they are goin' to skin you for somethin'. That's what makes a sucker bite.”

The professor began a bumble-bee conversation close to Sam's ear, and laid a quarter in his palm. “What I gwine to do wid dis?”

“Buy somethin' to eat; git acquainted—” And the bumble-bee conversation buzzed on.

When Sunlover emerged from the waiting-room his lips were moving like a school-boy who mutters a lesson: “Fessor, you say I got to tell 'em to fill dat sack wid dirt; den put de notion in dey heads to bet?”

“That's all. An' don't let on you knows me.”

“I reckin I kin do them two things, if I hurries an' don't git mixed up.”

Fessor watched him through the window. “Maybe he's the very nigger I needs,” he mused. “If I jes had his looks, wid my sense—” The yellow man smiled to think what he could accomplish.

Fessor began his simple preparations by taking two ordinary tobacco sacks from his satchel. One was quite empty; the other half full of something soft. He put both sacks into his pocket, then quietly observed Sam's manæuvres.

Sunlover had sense enough to angle off towards town, and approach the eating-house from that strategic direction. It did not take long to choose the grub. He had pretty well cleaned his plate when Fessor bounded up the steps, two at a time, with: “Who keeps this store?”

Fat Sandy sprang up. “Me. Kin I do somethin' for you?”

“Gimme some soda; quick! I got tooth-ache.” With slim, nervous fingers Fessor broke the package, dumped the white stuff on the counter and filled his tobacco sack. He clapped the bag to his jaw, sat down on a cracker box and got every negro's attention. “Is dat doin' you any good?” inquired the sympathetic Sandy.

Fessor nodded without speaking, then jumped up and laid the bag on the counter. “Don't let nobody bother that till I get back from the drug store,” he ordered.

“He sho is squirmy,” Little Dave remarked.

“Anybody apt to git squirmy when toof-ache grabs 'im.” Fat Sandy followed his customer to the door.

A shrivel-faced negro with slick shaved head and railroad cap, rose from a soap box and poked the soda bag with his finger: “Soda fer toof-ache; dat beats my time.”

“Dust would be jes bout as good,” Sunlover suggested, with a mouth full of cold ham. An inspiration seemed to strike him: “Less pour out dat soda an' fill de sack wid dust; he can't tell no diffunce.”

Slick-head and Little Dave snatched the sack and darted out of the door. Sandy kept watch while the other negroes looked on at the emptying and filling. Then they laid it back on the counter and sat around in suspicious silence.

“Here he comes,” whispered Sandy.

Every eye watched Fessor as he hurried up the steps, making a wad out of his silk handkerchief; every eye watched him as he took the bag of dirt, and pressed it against his jaw.

“Is dat gwine to cure your mizry?”

“Uhu; soon as it gets warm it draws out the pain.”

“I reckin you kin feel it drawin' out de pain—right now?”

Little Dave winked at the other negroes.

“Sure!” grunted the Professor; “soon as I put it on here I can feel the soda drawin'.”

“Dus' wouldn't draw out no pain, I reckin?”

Fessor shook his head: “Dus' wouldn't do no good.”

The sufferer sat on a box, resting his chin in his hands, looking mighty solemn and grunting like a fat sow when somebody scratches her back with a cob. Sam nudged Little Dave, and spoke up: “I reckin you'd bet dat dus' wouldn't draw out no pain, same as soda?”

The suggestion caught Slick-head; he bit like a trout. “I bet five dollars d'aint no soda in dat sack,” he almost shouted.

Fessor looked up: “You'se a fool; I put that soda in here.”

“Fool's money jes as good as Solerman's money,” said Slick-head, and leaned against the counter and flaunted five dollars in Fessor's face. “Here's money what say you aint got no soda in yo' sack.” Little Dave shoved him aside, saying: “Stand back, nigger; dis aint yo' bet. I wuz de fust one started it.”

Fessor could not understand. “You niggers is gone bug-house. Aint I filled this sack with soda? Didn't y'all see me do it? What's bitin' you?”

Little Dave strutted: “We wants to make some spote.”

“I loves to bet,” the Professor admitted, “but I hates to steal money from chillun.”

“Anybody what kin steal my money, he's all right.” Little Dave nudged Sandy, and fat old Sandy laughed.

The Professor appeared to be studying behind those big specks. He took the money out and put it back so many times they were afraid he wasn't going to bet: then he laid ten dollars in Sunlover's palm.

“I got five,” Slick-head promptly planked down.

“Here's my two,” said Little Dave. Sandy dodged around the counter. Before he could get back with three dollars the other negroes had covered two of it. Sandy kicked: “Is dat all I git's outen dis bettin'? Aint it my store?”

Sunlover stood upright with twenty dollars in hand, and sorely troubled. Did Fessor mean for him to run with the money? Those square-rimmed specks kept fastened on the floor and gave no hint. Sam felt mighty peevish at this spindling negro sitting on a soap box holding a bag of dust against his jaw. Little Dave got impatient: “Come on Fess; open her up; we wants to lose our money quick.”

The huddle of negroes crowded out to the front gallery; Sam got a good start, half way down the steps, then turned to listen to what Fessor was saying: “Lemme understand this bet real good. If this sack is full o' soda I gets the stakes; if it aint full o' soda y'all gets the stakes.”

“Dats it; dat's it; open her up.”

Sam moved down two more steps as Fessor passed the sack to Dave with, “You open her up yo'self; you's makin' the most fuss.”

Dave squatted on the floor and began untying the string. The other negroes laughed boisterously, then stopped with a gasp and a jerk—like a turned-off phonograph. Dave poured out the contents of his sack: soda, white soda, nothing but soda. Five stupefied negroes dropped unanimously to their knees and began raking amongst the white stuff—not a speck of dust.

Fessor did not change countenance. He merely edged out of the crowd: “Gimme that money.” Five stupefied negroes failed to protest. The Professor's coat tails fluttered and his long arms swung as he hiked himself back to the station.

Sam's brain wouldn't work, but his clumsy feet got him across the road and into the waiting room for negroes. Fessor handed him a five dollar bill. The ticket window went up with a snap; Sunlover shoved his money, looked at his ticket, counted his change—everything had the appearance of being real. Slowly he crossed the room, bent over Fessor and said, “You couldn't work dat game on nobody 'cept country niggers?”

“Everybody is a country nigger when he thinks he's got you skinned.”

Sam wandered to the door and rushed back excitedly: “Ole Hooker's over yonder; dem niggers is tellin' him all about it ”

“Rest yo'sef easy; niggers aint goin' to tell niggers about that—let alone tell white folks.”

 

The Cannon-Ball Express was puffing, ready to pull out. Slick-head and Little Dave stood gloomily beside it. From his window Fessor tossed them a tobacco sack: “Here's yo' bag o' dust; aint you 'shamed trying to rob a man what's got the toothache?”

Dave and Slick-head grinned—bravely, as men with toothache.

 

“Vicksburg! All out for Vicksburg!”

Sunlover took one last long drink of free ice water and edged up close to Fessor. As they crowded out of the car Fessor whispered, “Watch where I go, an' come in after a while.”

They climbed the steep sidewalk to Washington Street. Fessor turned to the left and hurried along with his head down; he had good reason for wanting nobody to recognize him. Passing a row of dingy houses, he dived into an alleyway between two shanties and vanished, feet first, like a man through a coal hole.

“Dar now!” exclaimed Sam, and sidled over carefully to look. The Professor's coat tails went flapping down a flight of steps, flapping along a narrow gallery, and disappeared with a farewell flap into a door far below the street. Sunlover hung around for a while,then felt his way down the steps, one foot at a time along that shaky gallery. The door opened and Fessor pulled him into a room where a smoky lamp burned in the daytime.

Another man sat at the table, a black man with a ragged dimple on his cheek-bone, the bullet-mark souvenir of a crap game.

“Come in, Henry,” Fessor spoke busily; “Mister Treasurer, this is Henry Williams, our new man.”

For a moment Sunlover disremembered that he was sailing under the name of Henry Williams, but he courteously shuffled a foot by way of acknowledging the introduction.

“Henry,” Fessor continued, “we wanted you to find the company's office; Treasurer says we got plenty work to-morrow.”

Sunlover did not like the aged and miscellaneous smells of that company's office; he was already crawfishing to the door.

“Hold up, Henry! Don't change them clothes, and don't wash your face. Keep on the same cap, and come back soon in the morning.”

Sunlover felt a heap better when he got out on the street again. Fessor turned back and sat down by the scar-faced man. “What do you think about him?” he asked.

“He's a country nigger, all right.”

“That's the kind we want. Now talk quick; we got to skip this town to-morrow night?”

“What's the matter? Is that white feller got back?”

“He'll sholy be here jest soon as he finds out.”

Fessor commenced drumming on the table. “What you got staked out for to-morrow?”

“Three mighty good ones, in a tight pinch for labor. We ought to clean up five hundred dollars and catch that nine o'clock train. Things look skeery.”

Fessor nodded, and kept nodding. “I wont feel easy till we hit N'Yawleens.”

Scar-face leaned over and asked: “What are we going to tell this new nigger?”

“Don't tell him nothin'. Let him look innocent an' draw 'em off the track.”

“Aint we goin' to give him no chance to make his git-away?”

“Tell him nothin'. Come on, le's get everything ready.”

Scar-face picked up the lamp and they began rummaging amongst a pile of cast-off clothing, when Fessor suggested, “For that first white man he wont need nothin' better'n what he's got on.”

Scar-face agreed. “Them's country clothes sho nuff; how'll this gray suit do for the second feller?”

Fessor shook his head. “No, the police have got a description of that gray suit.”

“Don't make no diffunce; the nigger what had it on was a ole nigger wid long whiskers.”

 

At the first crack of day Sunlover Sam stumbled down those complaining steps. The door was locked. He loafed around for hours until Scar-face showed up then Fessor. Sam picked his chance and joined them in the back room.

“Good pickin's to-day,” Scar-face smiled, and the dent showed deeper in his cheek.

“What kind o' pickin's?” Sam inquired dubiously.

“Best kind; our company gits labor for planters, an' you is de sample. If de white man likes de way you talk he pays us to git him a lot o' han's.”

“I sho kin talk to white folks.” Sam bobbed his head confidently.

Fessor slapped him on the back. “Mister Treasurer, you needn't bother about Henry; aint I seen him out-talk old Hooker an' keep off the chain gang. He's the kind o' nigger that white folks believe.” Fessor snapped his watch. “Half past eight; we better get a move on us. Henry, want a drink?”

“I aint no drinkin' man, but my ma raised me too good to refuse.” Sunlover drank the warm stuff out of a flask and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. “Now den, what y'all want me to do?”

Scar-face took him by the sleeve. “You come 'long wid me an' I'll p'int out de white man; den you do de talkin'. All you got to say is you wants to move on his place—an' git de expense money.”

“Spense money?”

“Sholy; to pay fer bringin' yo fambly, mules an' hosses an' things.”

“I aint gwine to fetch no fambly an' I aint got no things.'” Sam smiled like a fat-faced chocolate baby. Scar-face sniffed disgustedly. “Cose not; you aint gwine to move; you's jes de sample.”

“Sample? Say I is?”

“Uhu. You makes yo brags to de white folks about pickin' cotton, an' plowin', an' sech like. You an' yo' wife an' yo' two big boys—”

“Mine is little gals,” Sam corrected.

Sam looked bewildered while Fessor and Scar-face argued with him: “Aint you cotch on yit? You'se de sample—white folks wants half-growed boys. Tell 'em you owes fifty dollars to yo' boss an' it takes fifty mo' to move. Den he gives you de hundred—”

“Gimme a hunded? What fer?”

“For de copm'ny treasury; co'se we gits him a fambly o' niggers, an' dat makes it come out all right.”

“What come o' dat hund'ed?” Sam had a fixed notion that the treasurer got the treasury, and Fessor hastened to explain, “You gits yo' p'cent. You knows what percentage is?”

Sam straightened up. “Co'se I knows what p'centage is—two bits on a dollar, ev'y month.”

“Sholy,” chimed Scar-face. “Now, lissen: Yo' name is Luke Thomas; you got a wife an' two half-growed boys, an' a mule an' a waggin, an' a cow an' some pigs. White folks loves to git niggers what raises pigs. You lives on Dr. Simpson's place in Wilkinson County. Boll weevil et you up las' year—didn't make no crop 'tall. You owes de boss fifty dollars, an' it takes about fifty mo' to move—”

“Go slow dar an' lemme git de hang o' all dat.” Sunlover nodded and repeated each item until it soaked in—a regulation hard-luck story from the boll weevil country.

“Now come along,”—Scar-face caught his arm—“an' I'll show you de white man.”

Sunlover hung back and asked questions; but when they led him to the street he walked like a man that knew his business.

Fessor and Scar-face took turns at watching their sample talk with a gruff old planter who was loading negro families on a steamboat. “Jes look at that nigger,” whispered Fessor; “I told you he's the kind to get good money out o' white folks—good money.” Scar-face began to rub his hands and smile as the planter took out a pocketbook and slowly counted the bills into Sunlover's palm. Yet Sam kept standing around until Scar-face caught his eye and beckoned. “Whyn't you come 'long? You aint hitched; done got all you gwine to git.” Together the Scar-face Company climbed the hill, glancing back to see that Sunlover Sam didn't jump the game. “Dese strange niggers wont ack honest,” as Fessor observed to the Treasurer.

When Sunlover followed them into the Company's office, Scar-face turned and demanded, “How much did you git?”

Sam produced a roll of bills which the Treasurer annexed: “Sixteen dollars.”

“Sixteen!“ Fessor looked wild as a man who had been robbed; he wouldn't believe Scar-face, but snatched the roll and counted for himself—all in one dollar notes. “Dat wont hardly pay us for our time.” Then both pounced on Sam for explanation.

“Dat ole white feller say I oughter make out wid dat till I meets him on de ferry boat to-morrer.”

“Ferry boat! Whar did you tell him you lives?”

Sam looked sheepish, “I fergits de name o' de place you tole me—I jes p'inted cross de river.”

“Huh! ef you jes had to p'int somewhar, whyn't you p'int way off yonder an' git mo' money?”

Sam couldn't answer that logic; he only mumbled “I aint stuck on dis job; dat white man talk scan'lous rough—” And Sam was not stuck on the speed with which Scar-face transferred that roll of money to his pocket: “Whar's my p'centage?”

“You gits yo' p'centage Saddy night.”

“Saddy night; I wants it right now; I'm hongry.”

“Look here, nigger, you aint used to. gittin' nothin' till de end o' de year, an' den git nothin'. Dis comp'ny settles up regular ev'y Saddy night. Dat's de way we does bizness.”

Fessor lifted his voice for peace. “You gentlemens quit 'sputin' before you falls out. That aint business. Here, Henry, climb into these clothes; Cap'n Porter is waitin' at the Carroll, an' he's a mighty nice white man.”

Sunlover shucked his jeans and shifted to gray breeches while Fessor coached him: “Yo' name is Andrew Atkins; got the same mules an' chilluns an' things that you got before.”

“I knows all dat real good.”

“You lives over yonder in Madison Parish, Louisiana

“No, he don't,” snapped Scar-face. “We done tried Madison Parish an' aint got but sixteen dollars. You lives in Perry County, Alabama.”

Sam scratched his head. “You niggers gits me all tangled up.”

They dressed him, coached him, and were leading him forth when Scar-face changed his mind: “Hole up, Fessor; I'm skittish 'bout sendin' this nigger out o' here wid them gray clo'es on. Police is lookin' fer dem clo'es. Come back.”

Sam promptly came back—far back into the room. While the other two were wrangling he scuffled out of that gray suit. “De p'leece may fine dese clo'es, but dey wont fine me in 'em—dat's one shore thing.”

Fessor laughed: “We ought to dress him up fine for the Cap'n. Cap'n loves for niggers to look like they makes plenty money. I'm goin' to buy a clean shirt, an' a pair o' new shoes for him.”

 

Captain Willoughby Porter, of the Evangeline Plantation, lounged in one of those hospitable rocking chairs on the sidewalk in front of the Carroll Hotel. The rotunda of him swelled like a football wrapped in a white vest, and black silk cords swung from his eye-glasses. He propped his feet against a post and smoked an after-dinner cigar. He was dozing when the substantially dressed negro asked: “Is dis Cap'n Porter?”

“Yes. I am Captain Porter.”

“I heerd you wuz lookin' fer hands.”

The Captain dropped his feet and inspected Sunlover. “Did Josh Winston send you to me? Big black man? Scar on his face?”

Sunlover kept shaking his head. “I don't know 'im, suh; nigger say you wanted some good tenants?”

“I do, and Josh was getting them for me. I'm going down to see him after a while.” Captain Willoughby Porter took another look at the man before him; he flattered himself that he knew negroes from the ground up. “What's your name?”

“Andy Atkins, suh.”

“Where do you live?”

“Perry County, Alabama.”

“Mighty good negroes over there; old settled country.” The Captain's foot shoved a chair towards Sunlover. “Sit down; yes, sit down, that's all right.” It was the voice of a man who was accustomed to doing things pleasantly; Sam recognized his own kind of white folks, and the soul expanded in him. Half am hour later Fessor passed, for the second time, on the opposite side of the street. Sam and Cap'n were talking like old friends. Sunlover sat respectfully on the edge of his chair, leaning towards the planter, and announced, “No suh, I aint in debt.”

“Why do you want to move?”

“Cause we'se tired plowin' speckled bulls on a hillside and not makin' no money. No matter how much cotton I picks, de ducks gits de crop.”

“Ducks?” Cap'n Porter sat up straight. “Never heard of ducks eating cotton.”

“I aint said de ducks et it—not 'zackly, dough it 'mounts to de same thing. It's dis way: I gits meat an' meal an' 'lasses from de store, an' boss deducks fer dat. Liza buys a pair er shoes, an' he deducks fer dat. Time de end o' de year roll round de ducks got all de cotton.”

Captain Porter laughed until his neck-tie crawled around under his ear. He jerked it back, and jerked out a pencil: “How many are in your family?”

“Me an' my wife, two half-growed boys, an' her son, Jimmie.”

“All big enough to work?”

“Yas suh, dey's sholy good workers; ef dey hadn't been good workers we wouldn't never broke even—not on dat gully-washed lan'. My brudder too.”

“Does your brother want to move?”

“Yas suh; him an' pa.”

“How many?” Captain Porter made a list of prospects.

“My brudder he got fo' half-growed chillun; pa he got two' an' a peart young wife—” Sunlover gabbled on and let Captain Porter do the figurin'.

“That makes fifteen hands in all?”

“Yas suh; dey sont me over here huntin' a place to move.”

“When do you want to move?”

“Right away, suh.”

“Got your cotton all picked out?”

Sunlover released one of his justly celebrated smiles. “Sholy, boss; you jes oughter see dem niggers go throo a cotton patch—same as a swarm 0' locusts, an' don't leave nothin'; dey warn't no time pickin' cotton off dem gullies dis year; didn't make none.”

“Have you any stock?” Sunlover glibly enumerated the pigs, mules, cows, chickens, wagons, etcetera, that his family owned. Captain Porter nodded approvingly: “What railroad do you live on?”

“F. B. & W.—dat's what de niggers calls it.”

This puzzled the Captain: “I don't know any such road.”

“Four Bulls and a Waggin—takes fo' bulls to pull a waggin over dem hills.

Fessor couldn't help passing and re-passing on the other side of the street—it did him so much good to hear that white man laugh. Then the white man quit laughing and commenced to figure. “How much is the railroad fare?”

“Nine dollars an' fifty cents from de station we gits on at.”

“That makes a hundred and forty-one dollars—transportation for fifteen; fifty dollars more for freight; twenty-five for meals. Two hundred and twenty-five dollars ought to get everything aboard the boat at Vicksburg.” Captain Porter ran over his additions. “That's about right. Come on down to the bank.”

Sunlover had stayed away so long that Scar-face couldn't sit in the office another minute. He strolled up Washington Street. Fessor was standing in front of the bank talking vehemently with another negro, but squinting through the window. Scar-face saw the paying teller shove out a stack of money. Captain Porter passed the cash to Sunlover. “Huh!” Scar-face muttered, “dem's ten dollar bills; Cap'n Porter don't know nothin' bout one dollar bills.”

Along opposite sides of the street the Treasurer and the General Manager of the labor company hustled back to their office, and burst in together. Scar-face was breathless. “We kin hurry up an' ketch dat fo' 'clock train. I got a hunch to skip.”

Fessor reached behind a barrel and set his grip-sack in the middle of the floor.

“How we gwine to git rid o' dis nigger?” Scar-face inquired.

“Easy; send him down to the river to land another white man.”

Sunlover came out of the bank with two hundred and twenty-five dollars, good money, stuffed in his breeches pocket. Captain Porter stopped in the door, took out a cigar for himself and gave one to Sam—from the same case. “Huh!” Sam observed, “he don't tote one kind o' seegyars fer hisself, an' another kind fer niggers.”

“See you to-night,” remarked the Captain as he moved off; “I'll must go and find that labor agent now.”

Sunlover followed him a few steps and halted reluctantly, watching the good humored roly-poly walk of the man who never thought of watching or distrusting him. Sam began to have misgivings. “I hates fer dem niggers to git dat ole gent'man's money—an' him placin' pendence on me. Treasurers acks mighty tricky.”

Sunlover had such a deep distrust of treasurers that he stepped into a store and sunk that wad of money deep in his sock.

Scar-face and Fessor could not wait the return of their sample pigeon; they made a sortie in force and dragged him in side: “Whar's dat money?”

“Aint got none; Cap'n say fer me to come back dis evenin'.”

“Dat's a lie!” Scar-face forgot his caution and shouted: “I seen him shove it cross dat little shelf at de bank.”

“Den why didn't you come in an' git it?” Sam retorted.

Quick as a boa constrictor Scar-face twined his long black arms around Sam's body while Fessor's thin yellow fingers sneaked into both pockets. Sam whirled and shook himself like a mastiff; Scar-face fell across the table and crashed with it to the floor. Fessor staggered against the walk. Sam halted with his back against the door. “Ef I warn't so busy I'd take 'bout two minutes an' bump dem kinky heads togedder, jes to hear yo' teef rattle.”

Scar-face crouched and crept forward, but failed to come within reach. “Don't you want yo' p'centage?” he asked.

“Done tended to dat; I settles up right away. Dat's de way I does bizness.”

“Come back here wid my coat an' my hat.” Scar-face was beginning to breathe very hard as Sunlover reached a hand behind him and opened the door.

Fessor took one step away from the wall and threatened, “If you don't give me back my watch an' chain, I'll have you arrested.”

Sunlover grinned amiably. “I reckin y'all niggers aint gwine to stir up no constables.”

“Where you goin'?”

“Dunno zackly; it done fell in my mind to ramble 'bout some.”

When Sam climbed to the street level he looked out cautiously, then cut across to a crowd of negroes on the corner.

Looking back for Scar-face or Fessor to follow, he saw Captain Porter standing at the door of the barber shop, talking to the barber and seeming to be inquiring for some one. The barber shook his head; the Captain insisted. While they were talking, Sunlover saw two white men dodge down those steps in a business-like way, as if they knew exactly what they were going after.

“Dep'ty sheriffs,” a negro whispered behind him. Sam got caught in the current of idlers which set across the street, and curiosity carried him on.

Captain Porter had not seen the officers. The barber showed him to the head of the steps and pointed: “Dat's de labor comp'ny's office.”

The fat Captain paused. “Can't you go down there and tell Josh Winston that Captain Porter is up here?”

Things began to happen right then, which saved trouble for the barber. Two deputies came backing along the narrow gallery. When they had dragged Scar-face and Fessor up the steps to the sidewalk, a tall young planter identified Scar-face. “That's the fellow.”

Sam got wobbly in the knees but couldn't run. He moved in front of Captain and smiled beautifully, with every tombstone tooth he had, “Howdy, Cap'n.” And just then a deputy clutched his wrist. “Here's the other nigger; now we've got 'em all.”

The young planter looked at Sam and shook his head. “No; that's not the man. He was an old negro with long gray whiskers.”

Sam spoke up mighty quick: “Lawd Gawd, boss, I aint never seed dese niggers. I'm a farmer man. You ax Cap'n Porter; he knows me real good.”

Captain Porter took the cigar from his mouth: “What's the matter, Andy?”

“Dese gent'mens is talkin' 'bout 'restin' me.”

“What has he done, Mr. Hardy?”—to the deputy.

“He trots with this gang.”

“Oh no; you must be mistaken. This man has rented some land from me; I gave him two hundred and twenty-five dollars.”

“Here 'tis.” Sam dived into his sock and produced the roll. “Cap'n, you better take keer o' dis money till I gits ready to go home. Vicksburg niggers behaves scan'lous.”

Fessor and Scar-face glared at Sam as Captain Porter tucked that big roll into his pocket. The Captain gave Sam a shove. “Go back to the hotel and wait for me,” he commanded.

“Yas suh.” Sunlover's powerful shoulders opened a crevasse through that line of negroes; and he didn't look back.

It hurt Scar-face to see his best coat and derby going off with Sam; Fessor bled inwardly over his watch and chain.

The deputies glanced uncertainly at each other. “That's all right, Cap'n, if you say he's your nigger. But taint good for any nigger to trot with this pair.”

The other deputy laughed. “I reckon this pair aint goin' to do much trottin' for quite a while.”

WHEN we started this series of “SUNLOVER SAM” stories we said we considered them even better than the “Old Reliable” stories. ception by the reading public justifies the claim. another next month, “THE DODGER,” in which Sunlover dodges into jail.