“Dis here cullud lady is gwine be my wife. I make you ’quainted wid Coco Ferret!”

Love had flushed the saddle-colored face of Skeeter Butts to a brownish-crimson, and the gorgeous splendor of his clothes reflected the sunburst of affection in his heart.

Hitch Diamond held out his hand to a fat, dumpy, simple-faced country negro girl, and grinned.

“Huh,” he chuckled, as Coco Ferret shook hands, “dis here gal is all soft and puffed-up an’ squeezy like a big balloom.”

“Dat’s right,” Skeeter grinned, eying the girl with a prideful gaze. “I likes ’em dat way. Edgecated niggers is too slim an’ active. Dey gits biggity an’ bumptious. Dey axes ’terrogations an’ is bawn to trouble.”

“Dis lady oughter make a good-pervidin’ cook an’ housekeeper,” Hitch suggested, looking her over as if she were a horse which Skeeter had bought.

“I shore is bofe dem things,” the girl responded. “Skeeter ain’t gittin’ no set-easy gal.”

“I hopes you’ll bofe be as happy as married niggers ever is,” Hitch remarked politely.

“Happy is our name, Hitch,” Skeeter declared confidently. “Dis here gal is already fotch me luck, an’ I’s gwine use her fer our mascop in de ball game to-day.”

“Whut is de word about de game, Skeeter?” Hitch grunted. “Is us gwine win?”

“Suttinly,” Skeeter declared. “I done bet fawty dollars. Coco is bet ten dollars. I b’lieves in bettin’ all I kin git.”

“Dem Sawtown niggers is powerful pert players, Skeeter,” Hitch warned him. “Dey wucks reg’lar in de big sawmill, an’ dey got plenty muscle an’ wind. Dey plays baseball all day on eve’y Sunday, an’ dey keeps in fine practice. Dey all ’pears like new-issue niggers to me—slick-heads, plum’ full of tricks, an’ dangersome.”

Skeeter turned and looked over the picnic grounds where a number of husky blacks were prancing around with the women. They all wore their baseball suits, and these uniforms drew the women like a barrel of sugar attracts flies.

“Yes, suh, I admits dem facks,” Skeeter said. “But look at de baseball team us is got—Figger Bush is de best pitcher in Loozanny; Prince Total ketches; Mustard Prophet straddles fust base—us is been playin’ all summer, an’ we is winned eve’y game up to now!”

“Dat’s so,” Hitch remarked, with less uneasiness in his voice. “I reckin I’ll bet eve’y dollar dat I’m got.”

“Dat’s de talk,” Skeeter applauded. “I been pussuadin’ all de players on de Tickfall team to bet all de money dey had.”

“Dat ain’t good bizziness,” Hitch declared. “Ef players bets deir own dollars an’ de team is losin’, dey all gits rattled.”

“Mebbe so, wid white folks,” Skeeter replied. “But ’tain’t so wid niggers. You know how niggers is—ef dey think de yuther man is gwine lose money on deir wuck, dey don’t pay no mind, an’ de Lawd’s will kin be did. But ef a nigger figgers dat he’s gwine lose money on his own se’f—Lawdy, he shore do scratch gravel!”

Their conversation was brought to a close by a long blast upon a fox-horn.

“Dat means de picnic dinner is sot,” Skeeter interpreted. “Us better hurry or all dem yuther niggers will wollop up de grub.”

As they took their places at the long table where the food was piled up in an appalling and unappetizing mass, Vinegar Atts bellowed:

“Who is de she-queen you is armin’ aroun’, Skeeter?”

“Dis here is my gwine-be wife,” Skeeter grinned. “Her name’s Coco.”

“It’s ’bout time you wus gittin’ married an’ sottled down,” Rev. Vinegar Atts proclaimed, scenting a wedding fee. “Den you’ll be king of de coconut tree. Ef you puts off gettin’ married too long, you gits outen de habit of wantin’ to be.”

“Me an’ Coco is got de same mind now,” Skeeter snickered, proud of the attention they were attracting. “Coco is de mascop at de ball game dis afternoon.”

At the far end of the table the manager of the Sawtown team heard this last remark and uttered an exclamation. Stepping over to one of his players he asked:

“Buff’lo, how come us fergot to fetch a mascop along wid us?”

“Dunno, cap,” Buffalo replied. “I got my rabbit’s foot.”

“Dem Tickfall coons is got a woman fer a mascop,” the manager said. “An dey got Figger Bush fer a pitcher, an’ Prince Total ketches. Dat powerful arrangement shore looks bad to me.”

“Why don’t us hoodoo Figger?” Buffalo inquired.

“How is dat did?” Manager Star asked eagerly.

“Make a cross on Figger’s head wid a rabbit foot,” Buffalo informed him.

“Dat’s easy,” Star grinned. “Gimme yo’ foot, Buff’lo.”

Ten minutes later the Sawtown manager sidled up to Figger Bush and remarked:

“You gotter pitch hard dis atternoon, Figger. I thinks you needs some nourishment. I gives you dis big, yeller awange as a peace-off’rin’.”

As Figger, grinning, reached out for the orange, Star let it fall from his hand and roll under the table. Figger went down on his hands and knees, crawled under the table for his gift, and when he came out felt some sharp object scraped across his woolly scalp. When he stood up he beheld Manager Star grinning at him, holding up a mangy rabbit foot.

“Sawtown wins de game to-day, Figger,” Star snickered. “I done cross yo’ head wid a rabbit foot, an’ luck ain’t wid yo’ no mo’.”

Figger Bush turned almost white.

As Star walked away, Figger turned every pocket in his clothes wrong side out, found every cent of money he had in his possession, and crammed it into his mouth. Stooping down, he made a cross in the sand with his middle finger, drew a large ring around the cross, and dropped the money out of his mouth into the center of the ring. Then from under each coin he gathered a tiny pinch of dirt, placed it in the palm of his left hand, turned around three times with his eyes closed, and tossed the grains of dirt over his head.

Thus he hoped to break the hoodoo. But uneasiness filled his soul.

“My Gawd,” he sighed. “I shore feels powerful bad.”

At two o’clock that afternoon four hundred negroes stood around the baseball diamond and cheered the Tickfall team as they went to the field and the Sawtown visitors went to bat.

Figger Bush, the famous Tickfall pitcher, rubbed his hands with dirt, tightened his belt, took a chew of tobacco, waved one foot in the air, and pitched his first ball. Kerplunk! It landed in the stomach of the Sawtown batter, doubled him up, and dropped him in a heap on top of the plate.

Two delighted, grinning, Sawtown teammates caught the injured man by the arms, lifted him, and escorted him to first base, enlivening their progress down the line by directing to Figger Bush certain remarks which were calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the minimum.

The second batter hit the first ball, sent it far over in the high weeds back of center field; then he and the injured teammate loped leisurely into home.

“Git yo’ eye steady, Figger!” Butts squealed. “Don’t let ’em rattle you up!”

“Figger, Figger, he’s de nigger!” the Sawtown men bawled. “We done got dat nigger’s figger!”

Once more Bush wound up to pitch the ball, but the moment he brought his arm back for the whiplike throw, the ball slipped out of his fingers, rolled weakly across the diamond, and was retrieved by the third-baseman.

Every member of the Sawtown team sprang into the air, emitted ecstatic whoops, and plastered the helpless Figger with every name in their vocabulary which they thought would stick.

When Bush finally threw the ball it went over the plate ten feet in the air, and a giggling batboy chased it until it struck against a stump on the edge of the bayou and stopped.

“Oh, Figger!” Skeeter screamed, with a sob in his voice. “Whut’s de matter, pardner? Whut ails ye? I got my dollars on ye, Figger; buck up, fer Gawd’s sake——”

Bush’s answer was a pitched ball which struck the ground three feet in front of the plate, bounced waist-high to the batter, and was slugged far over in the left field, where it fell in a slough, and the fielder had to wade in the muck to his knees to get it.

“You’re all right, Figger!” the Sawtown players shrieked. “You suits us fine! Don’t let Skeeter Butts git yo’ goat!”

Figger’s eyes twitched, his jaws worked on his tobacco quid like a mill, his knees grew weak and wabbly. He wound up to throw the ball, then suddenly stopped his operations, straightened up, and felt at the top of his head as if something had hit him.

He threw four balls in rapid succession, not one of which came within ten feet of the plate, and the batter walked to the first.

He threw another ball, hit the batter on the elbow, and he walked to first.

He threw another ball, the batter tapped it, and it dropped at the feet of Figger Bush.

Figger wiped the bitter sweat out of both eyes, stooped down with great deliberation, picked up the ball, wiped the dust off of it on his ragged shirt, and threw it to first just as the three Sawtown men came over the home plate!

“Keep it up, ole boy!” the Sawtown men screamed. “You kin do it—you got us all guessin’—make us run de bases—dat’s de right boy!”

“Oh, fer de Lawd’s sake, Figger,” Skeeter squealed, “see ef you cain’t pitch jes’ one straight ball! Don’t put nothin’ on it—jes’ throw it straight an’ easy!”

Figger threw it straight and easy. A child could have hit it with a lead-pencil. What the batter did to that ball will never be known. It sailed over the top of the highest trees like a bird, and is lying hidden in the Dorfoche woods yet. Then this colored Ty Cobb walked around the bases and sat down on the home plate, conversing in the meantime with Figger Bush with choice language.

Prince Total threw aside his mask and chest-protector and walked down to the pitcher’s box just as the umpire tossed out a new ball.

“Figger, you is de wust pitcher I ever seen!” Prince howled. “You git up dar an’ ketch, an’ lemme see kin I fan dese niggers out. My Gawd, you muss be crippled under yo’ hat to play ball like you is doin’!”

“I is,” Figger replied, rubbing his woolly scalp like a man in a dream.

Skeeter Butts left the coaching line, ran into the crowd, and seized Coco Ferret by a fat arm.

“Come on outen dis crowd, honey!” he squeaked. “Oh, Lawdy, ef you never done no mascoppin’ before, you git to doin’ it now! Dis is awful!”

“How is mascoppin’ done, Skeeter?” she inquired as the little darky dragged her out of the crowd.

“Gawd knows!” Skeeter panted as he led her out to where all the Tickfall team could see her from the field. “You jes’ nachelly be it—like a luck charm.”

Then he turned to the players and howled:

“I done got yo’ mascop out in front, Prince! Look at dis pretty nigger gal an’ pick up a brave heart! Set yo’ eye on Coco and do yo’ durndest! Don’t let nothin’ skeer you, Prince, fer good luck’s done busted right in yo’ face!”

Prince Total, thus admonished, retired the Sawtown nine with only three pitched balls. Each batter knocked a fly which was caught in the field.

The Tickfall nine was suddenly jubilant. Four hundred Tickfall fans bellowed with joy. Skeeter Butts ran to Coco Ferret, threw his arms around her, an’ giggled:

“Oh, you little, fat mascop! You done bust de bad luck! Eve’y nigger in dis town loves you like a brudder—an’ me, you done winned my heart ferever an’ ever!”

When the Tickfall team came in to bat, Hitch Diamond puffed through the crowd like a steam-engine and started a row.

“Whut de debbil you mean by throwin’ dis game, Figger?” he howled in irate tones. “Whut de trouble wid yo’ head? Don’t you know you is losin’ yo’ own good money?”

“Trouble?” Figger Bush bawled. “Dem Sawtown niggers done put a hoodoo sign on me!”

“How come?” Hitch asked in a changed tone.

“Dey crisscrossed my head wid a rabbit foot.”

“My Gawd!” Hitch howled, and his eyes looked scared. “Why ain’t you stood pigeontoed when you pitched, Figger? Dat’d bust de sign.”

“Shut up, Hitch!” Pap Curtain snarled as he came into the crowd. “You stop lowratin’ dat Figger Bush. I done made inquirements, an’ I foun’ out dat all dem Sawtown coons is got a buzzard’s feather in deir hat an’ snake-dust in deir shoes, an’ a raw pertater in deir pocket. Dey done sot deir triggers fer luck, and dey got all de rabbit foots in Sawtown hung roun’ deir necks!”

“My Lawd!” mourned Skeeter Butts, “dem niggers hadn’t oughter did us dataway.”

“Of co’se, I couldn’t do nothin’!” Figger Bush declared defensively. “Eve’y time I picked up dat ball it begun to claw at de inside of my hand jes’ like I wus holdin’ a live Jume bug!”

“Dat’s right!” Prince Total agreed. “Ef dem fust three balls I pitched hadn’t fotch dem niggers out, I never could ’a’ tossed anodder over dat plate. Dat ball’s got de slickments, an’ wiggles like a live snake!”

“Shore!” the fielders agreed with awed voices. “Somepin shore ails dat ball—dey muss hab rubbed it wid eel-juice!”

Skeeter Butts listened to this with ever decreasing hopes of victory for the team.

“Lawdymussy, niggers!” he sighed helplessly. “Think of all de dollars we is losin’. Ain’t dar no way to cross dem Sawtown hoodoo signs?”

“Us might try it,” Hitch Diamond said as he dived his hand into his pocket for his lucky charms. “Less dec’rate de fust batter wid all our luck pieces!”

“Batter up!” the umpire bawled for the tenth time.

Thereupon Prince Total went to bat, stuffing things in his pockets until they bulged like the pockets of a boy who had been on a visit to an apple orchard. He had rabbits’ feet and buzzards’ feathers, iron rings and iron bolts, buckeyes and raw potatoes, rattlesnake rattles and birds’ claws, teeth of horses and tusks of hogs, locks of hair and four-leaf clovers, rings and chains and rubber bands, beer-checks and copper pennies—a veritable witch’s brew of trifles.

Standing at the plate with all this equipment of luck, he bunted the ball to the feet of the shortstop, started to first base carrying his bat, tangled the bat up between his legs, fell on his head, and scattered his luck-charms all over that part of the diamond.

A loud groan went up from the throats of the spectators, and Prince got up, picked up his scattered trinkets, placing them in his hat, and laid them at the feet of Skeeter Butts with a sheepish grin.

“I had too many of dem things, fellers,” he explained. “Too much luck is more’n a plenty. I couldn’t tote it all!”

Then Figger Bush fanned wildly at two balls, shut his eyes and took a lick at the third, hit himself on his own shin with the bat, and came limping back, nursing his crippled leg, and muttering profane things.

In the meanwhile Skeeter had loaded down Mustard Prophet with all the hoodoo charms which Figger had carried and a large assortment which Hitch had accumulated by solicitation among the fans. They were in his shoes, in his belt, in his cap, in his shirt; he rubbed snake-dust on his hands, sprinkled magic powder on his woolly head, and went to bat as uneasy as a condemned criminal facing the electric chair.

“Lam de ball, Mustard!” Skeeter howled. “Put some ginger on de bat, Mustard! You’s puffeckly safe—you done crossed de hoodoo sign on ’em! I’s prayin’ fer you, Mustard!”

Skeeter’s prayers were not answered.

Mustard saw the first ball coming and jumped ten feet away. He struck at the second ball after it was in the catcher’s mitt, and he struck twice at the third ball—once while the pitcher was winding up and again when the ball was forty feet from the plate. Then he walked back to Skeeter, delivered of all his lucky pieces, and joined the Tickfall team on its way to the field.

Then Vinegar Atts walked up and laid his hand on Skeeter’s shoulder.

“Looky here, Skeeter!” he bellowed. “All us niggers is losin’ our dollars on dis here game! I b’lieves dat dis game has been fixed!”

“’Tain’t so, Elder,” Skeeter denied tearfully. “I done bet fawty dollars on dis game, an’ I’s gwine lose eve’y cent of dat an’ ten dollars dat my gal bet!”

“Whut ails dis Tickfall team?” Vinegar wanted to know.

“Dem Sawtowners done got de hoodoo sign on ’em,” Skeeter explained. “I tried to bust de hoodoo when us wus at bat, but it cain’t be did.”

Vinegar shook his fat fist at the face of Butts.

“I tells you dis, solemn an’ specific, Skeeter: dese here cullud pussons is bet deir few money on yo’ recommend. Dey don’t figger on no hoodoo or no nothin’! Ef you done gone an’ fixed dis game, all I gotter say is, you better unhoodoo our team befo’ dis crowd of coons make up deir minds whut dey gwine do to you fer sellin’ us out to de Sawtowners!”

Vinegar Atts walked away with a majestic air, and Skeeter Butts sat down on the ground beside Coco Ferret, wiping the copious sweat from his face.

“O Lawd,” he prayed, “ef I only but had a jinx!”

“Whut am a jinx, Skeeter?” Coco inquired.

“It’s a cross-eyed female woman,” Skeeter declared, looking at Coco hopefully. But Coco’s eyes were round as a buckshot and straight, perfectly straight.

With a groan Skeeter placed his face in his two hands and mourned:

“We’s gwine lose all our dollars, Coco—dar ain’t no hope!”

“Whut did Vinegar Atts specify de niggers wus gwine do to you?” Coco asked.

“He ain’t say,” Skeeter told her, speaking from a heart filled with misery and dreadful foreboding. “I ’speck dey’s gwine hang me.”

A wild yell from the Sawtown rooters caused him to glance up listlessly. The slaughter had begun again. With another groan he dropped his head and gave himself up to deep thought.

A sharp crack of hickory against horsehide—Skeeter looked up and saw the Tickfall center-fielder fumbling with the ball, picking it up and dropping it three times, while four hilarious Sawtown men came in and scored.

Skeeter rose to his feet, dusted the seat of his duck trousers, and said to Coco:

“Little gal, you set right here till I gits back. Dar ain’t no cross-eyed gals in dis whole town, but I’m gotter bust dat hoodoo sign onless I hankers to die, which ain’t so. Is you willin’ to he’p me?”

“Suttinly,” Coco assured him.

“All right. You set right here an’ keep on mascoppin’! I’s gwine to Tickfall.”

Skeeter ran the quarter of a mile to Tickfall, jumped into the door of the drug-store, and panted:

“Please, suh, I wants a jar of dat white stuff whut de lady folks puts on deir complexion.”

“Cold cream?” the clerk inquired.

“Naw, suh; it’s a kind of paste whut dey puts on wid a little sponge.”

“I got you,” the clerk answered, reaching up on a shelf and lifting down a jar. “Face enamel. You go’ner try to git white, Skeeter?”

“Naw, suh; nothin’ like dat. Dis is fer a cullud lady pusson,” Skeeter snickered as he laid the money on the counter. “How long do it take dis stuff to dry atter you put it on yo’ mug?”

“About a minute.”

“Kin you gib me a little piece of sponge to smear it on wid?”

The grinning clerk tossed him the sponge, and Skeeter went loping down the street to a dry-goods store.

“Gimme a thick, black veil ’bout a yard long!” he exclaimed. “I wants a mournin’ veil!”

With this article clutched in his hand he ran all the way back to the ball game.

“Whut de sco’, Hitch?” he squealed as he ran through the crowd.

“Twenty-eight to nothin’ favor erf de Sawtowns,” Hitch grunted with a malignant stare at Skeeter. “You better git busy, Skeeter Butts, an’ bust dis hoodoo—ef it is a hoodoo. Dese here niggers wut bet deir money is ackin’ powerful peevish an’ specify dat you done sold ’em out—I favors dat view myse’f.”

“Dat’s jes’ de way wid niggers,” Skeeter whined. “Dey been winnin’ money offen dis nine all summer, an’ now when us is struck a losin’ streak dey talks ’bout mobbin’ me!”

He ran over to where Coco Ferret sat. She looked up and said:

“Whut muss I do, Skeeter? I been tryin’ to mascop, but dat don’t do no good!”

“Come wid me, honey!” Skeeter replied, and led her through the crowd and into the picnic grounds, where a growth of underbrush screened them from view.

There he produced his jar of face-enamel, and explained:

“Coco, my maw wus de greates’ hoodoo dorctor in dis parish. When she died she gimme dis jar of hoodoo juice an’ tole me ef I would rub it on de face of de gal I loved dat gal would bust any hoodoo sign in de worl’. I loves you best of all, an’ ef you ain’t got no real good objections I’ll an’int yo’ mug wid dis juice.”

“Do it hurt?” Coco asked.

“Naw!” Skeeter declared.

He took her hand, rubbed the enamel over the back of her wrist, and wiped it off quickly, leaving the skin coal-black as before.

“It makes de hide feel cold like ice,” Coco giggled as she took off her hat and held her head back. “Smear it on thick, Skeeter!”

Skeeter dipped his sponge in the enamel and gladly smeared it on thick. He wiped the mess across the girl’s forehead, down each cheek, and under her chin. The black skin under that whitening made the most poisonous-looking combination imaginable.

“I ain’t gwine put dis close aroun’ yo’ eyes, honey,” Skeeter declared. “I’ll jes’ make a nice roun’ ring roun’ yo’ eyes an’ yo’ mouth because I’s skeart it might sting ef it got in dem places.”

“Smear it on thick, Skeeter,” the girl snickered. “It shore feels cold an’ smells sweet.”

In two minutes Skeeter looked upon the work which his hand had made, and pronounced it very good.

“Dat’ll shore fetch ’em, Coco,” he giggled. “When our mascop shows up all greased wid hoodoo-ile somepin is gwine be doin’ wid dem Sawtown coons!”

He laid his black veil on Coco’s lap.

“Now, honey, you let dat juice dry a minute, den you put dat veil over yo’ hat an’ down over yo’ face.”

Skeeter helped her to adjust the veil, and they were ready.

Ecstatic whoops from the Sawtown team came to their ears, informing them that the massacre was still in progress.

The score stood thirty-seven to nothing in favor of Sawtown, and the Sawtown captain grew weary of the game.

“You fellers stop hittin’ dat ball! We got to play at least five innings befo’ we kin be shore of gittin’ our bet-money,” he bellowed. “Us is done got ’em beat—fan out! Eve’y batter is ordered to fan out!”

“Dat’s suits me,” Skeeter snickered as this command was expressed loud enough for everyone to hear. “Dey’ll change deir tune in a minute. Dey’ll want to hit de ball an’ cain’t!”

The Sawtown batters, responsive to the captain’s order, went out—one, two, three.

Again Tickfall was at the bat—the last half of the second inning.

“Now, Coco,” Skeeter said as a scar-faced negro named Possum picked up the bat and went to the plate. “Dis is yo’ time to git busy an’ save de day. You stand over dar—as close to fust base as you kin git. I’s gwine over an’ stand by third base. Don’t you raise up yo’ veil until I gives de sign.”

“Whut is de sign?” Coco giggled.

“When I lifts my hat like I wus bowin’ to a lady den you raise up yo’ veil, an’ stick it up on top of yo’ hat.”

“All right,” Coco agreed. “I’ll watch fer de sign.”

“Hey, fellers!” the Sawtown pitcher whooped as he pointed toward first base. “Look at de Tickfall mascop all diked out in black mournin’! Dey got her fixed right now!”

Loud yells from the Sawtown players greeted this remark, and a moment later the Sawtown pitcher delivered the ball. Possum bunted it toward the shortstop, and started for first base like a rabbit.

Skeeter Butts raised his hat with a most exaggerated bow.

Coco Ferret raised her veil.

Possum never reached first base.

He took one look at Coco’s face, gave utterance to a howl which would have frightened a European war general, and started for left field by way of the pitcher’s box, looking behind him and whining like a dog.

Just as the shortstop threw to first the Sawtown first-baseman got a look at Coco’s face.

“My gosh!” he whooped.

His arms dropped paralyzed to his sides, he received the baseball full in his stomach, and started after Possum at his best gait.

“My Gawd!” the Sawtown pitcher yelped; his glove fell from his hand, and he started away.

“Dat gal’s got some kind of ketchin’ disease!” the third-baseman squalled; and thereupon he and the second-baseman, the shortstop, and the catcher started after the pitcher in wild flight, looking behind them as if fearful that the object of their fright would pursue them.

Coco Ferret, lacking a woman’s best friend—a mirror—and having no idea of her horrific appearance, turned and grinned at the crowd of Tickfall negroes, delighted with her success as a hoodoo breaker.

“Oh—my—Lawd A’mighty!” Vinegar Atts bellowed, his eyes popping with fright, his mouth spread wide in horrified imbecility. “Whut is Gawd done gone an’ done to dat gal? Run, niggers, run!”

Vinegar’s hand was pointing Coco out to the crowd, but the girl at that moment was looking toward Skeeter Butts, grinning like a drunken nightmare.

The crowd paused just long enough to look.

What they saw was a girl who had been shiny-black two hours before—but now her face was white, with black rings around the eyes and mouth; a ghastly, horrible whiteness, poisonous-looking and appalling, enough to frighten any sane man into jimjams.

Vinegar Atts started toward Tickfall, bellowing like a cow.

Four hundred squalling blacks fell in behind him, fighting for room to run, grabbing at each other’s coat tails to accelerate their speed, taking frightened glances behind them every moment, then adding another octave to the vocalization of their fright.

Out on the highroad they kicked up the dust and sand like a cyclone, but the dust-cloud did not obscure the light-blue dress of Coco Ferret as she trotted down the road behind them.

Skeeter Butts trotted behind Coco, cackling like a hen.

“Keep it up, honey!” he squawked. “You shore is a grand little hoodoo sign buster! Chase ’em plum’ to town! You done saved our money an’ saved my life!”

At the little bridge over the Coolie Creek on the edge of Tickfall, Skeeter Butts tried to stop her.

“Less blow a while an’ rest our foots, Coco,” he snickered. “Lawd, dat shore wus a dandy race!”

“Naw!” Coco declared. “I ain’t gwine rest till I gits home! Dis here mess is hot on my face. It wus cool at fust.”

“Pull down yo’ veil, honey!” Skeeter begged her. “Dis here face juice is too precious fer igernunt niggers to see.”

Coco adjusted her veil, and they lingered a moment at the bridge, cooling off under the shade of the trees. Finally Coco asked:

“Skeeter, wus dem niggers runnin’ away from me?”

“Naw!” Skeeter declared. “It wus dat hoodoo juice dat sont ’em skootin’ home. My maw shore told de truth ’bout dat juice.”

“Kin I have de rest of de juice, Skeeter?” Coco asked as they strolled slowly toward her cabin.

“Suttinly!” Skeeter said, producing the little jar from his pocket. “But I bet you don’t never use it no more, Coco.”

“I bet I does,” Coco giggled as they walked up the steps of her cabin.

The girl laid her hat and veil on the bed and sat down.

Skeeter broke into a loud laugh.

“Whut you laughin’ at, nigger?” Coco demanded.

“Go, take a peep at yo’se’f in de lookin’-glass. Coco,” Skeeter cackled. “Oh, my goodness gracious Moses——”

He sprang to his feet, caught hold of the mantel with both hands, and hung there, helpless with laughter, his alligator mouth stretched to the limit.

Coco walked to the mirror.

“My stars an’ garters!” she howled at sight of her face. “Skeeter Butts, is you made me look like de debbil’s wife on purpose?”

“Sure!” Skeeter whooped. “I wus ’bout to lose my bets—fawty dollars fer me an’ ten fer you——”

“Is you made me look like dis to save you money?” Coco demanded in irate tones. “You treat yo’ gwine-be wife like dat?”

“Yes’m!” Skeeter shrieked amid his paroxysms of laughter. “Oh, my honey bird—you is de dangest sight ever I did see since de day I wus borned on—whoop-ee!”

Coco suddenly snatched open the drawer of her bureau, and Skeeter saw the malignant gleam of a nickel-plated, pearl-handled revolver.

“Murder-r-r!” he shrieked as he shot through the door with the speed of a comet.

As he passed out of the door a bullet flattened against the jamb close to his face.

As he passed through the yard gate the splinters from two more bullets were shattered from the posts close beside him.

As he galloped wildly down the street two more bullets kicked up the dust around his flying feet.

He bounced through the swinging doors of the Hen-Scratch saloon and found his establishment crowded with negroes demanding back the money they had bet.

“All bets is declared off, niggers!” Skeeter panted.

He sank weakly into a chair, wiped the sweat from his face with a trembling hand, fanned himself with his hat for a moment, then made another announcement:

“All my weddin’ arrangements is declared off, too, niggers!”

“How come?” the Rev. Vinegar Atts demanded, saddened by the loss of a wedding fee.

Skeeter panted for breath, and finally explained:

“Dat female mascop is done jinxed me!”