V.
By sleeping until the noon-hour the two love-captives shortened the third day by half.
In the two days past they had exhausted every theme of conversation, had wearied of every kind of amusement they could devise, and had pumped their hearts dry of language to proclaim and protest their affection for each other to lubricate the machinery of existence amid the friction of their disposition and temperament.
The day before Plaster had made a hit with a song, so he decided to fill every moment of that day until the sun sank below the horizon with vocal music, for song banishes conversation and song is not provocative of difference of opinion and argument—so he thought. While he and his wife were dressing, Plaster began:
"Does you know dat I am dyin'
Fer a little bit of love?
Everywhar dey hears me sighin'
Fer a little bit of love.
Fer dat love dat grows mo' strong,
Fills de heart wid hope and song,
I has waited—oh, so long—
Fer a little bit of love."
"Whut makes you sing so dang loud, Plaster?" Pearline asked wearily, as she rested her head upon her hands. "You sounds like a brayin' jackace mournin' because he done tumbled down a open well."
"One time you said you liked my singin'," Plaster retorted.
"I couldn't tell you whut I really thought about it in dem sad days," Pearline remarked.
They ate their noon meal in silence because neither could think of anything to say. Plaster had got the hook at the very beginning of his musical career, and the things he thought of to say were not fit for utterance or publication.
As they rose from the table, they looked with surprise out of the window.
A long procession of negroes approached the cabin. All were dressed in their best clothes and the Rev. Vinegar Atts was in the lead.
The bridal pair suddenly remembered something, and they stepped out on the porch to receive them as they filled the space in front of the house.
Vinegar took his famous preaching attitude in front of the porch, inflated his lungs and began:
"Brudder an' Sister Sickety, us is all rejoiced dat you two honey-loves is got mighty nigh through wid yo' honey-tower widout no fuss or fight. We welcomes you back to our sawsiety wid glad arms. We hopes dat you will love each yuther mo' or less an' off an' on ferever! We knows dat you has well earnt dis house an' lot dat Marse John Flournoy has gib you an' we cullud folks wants to make you a present of a few change so you kin buy some nice house-furnicher an' start out fresh an' new."
Thereupon Vinegar laid his stove-pipe hat upside down upon the floor of the porch, turned and surveyed the assembly while he mopped his bald head with a yellow bandana handkerchief.
"Walk right up, brudders an' sisters, an' drap yo' few change in dis stove-pipe preachin'-hat!"
They came up one by one, laughingly depositing their money, and pausing to shake hands with the bride and groom.
When the ceremony ended, Vinegar emptied his hat upon the floor of the porch, placed it upon his head with a farewell flourish, and led the negroes out of the yard.
"Dis money is de fambly secret dem three nigger womens whispered to me, honey," Pearline giggled.
"Dat's de myst'ry dem three committee fellers tole me," Plaster chuckled.
The two sat down and counted the money—twenty-five dollars and thirty cents!
"Dat thuty cents is yourn to spend foolish, Pearline," Plaster said generously as he pushed three dimes toward her and clutched with both hands at the rest.
"Hol' on nigger!" Pearline snapped. "I ain't no bayou minnow to git jes' a little nibble of dat money—half of dat cash spondulix is mine."
"Yes'm, but I is de man of de fambly an' I oughter keep it an' han' it out to you as you needs it."
"I needs my half right now," Pearline snapped, placing both her hands upon the clutching paws of Plaster Sickety.
"Whut you gwine do wid twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" Plaster demanded in irate tones.
"Buy me a hat!" Pearline told him.
"You's a fool!" Plaster informed her. "Female hats ain't furnicher."
"Dis money furnishes me wid a hat," she announced positively.
Then they sat for a few minutes in silence, both keeping their hands spread out over the money.
"Whut you gwine do wid yo' twelve dollars an' fo' bits?" Pearline demanded at last.
"I figgers on buyin' a fiddle," Plaster told her. "Plenty money kin be made playin' fiddles, an' I b'lieves I could learn to fiddle ef I had a good chance."
"I ain't gwine hab no fiddlin' nigger in my house," Pearline snorted. "I's druther be married to a phoneygraft."
"You ain't gwine be married to nothin' very long ef you don't leggo dis money, nigger!" Plaster snarled.
"I is."
"You ain't."
"You sassed me fust."
The woman raised one hand from the money and made an unexpected sideswipe at Plaster's jaw with her open palm. The blow landed with a smack that jarred the very marrow of his bones and keeled him over the edge of the porch to the ground. As he fell sprawling, the chain tightened and jerked Pearline off her perch and she fell to the ground with a squall. Then for ten minutes there was a Kilkenny cat scrap on the front lawn.
Pearline bit and scratched and pulled hair and tore clothes. She had decidedly the best of the rookus until her unusual activities caused her to get a twist of the chain around her neck. Plaster thanked the Lord and choked her into inaction and submission by the simple process of pretending to escape from her and thus tightening the chain.
When she was choked almost to suffocation, he edged her to the porch, lifted the twenty-five dollars and thirty cents into his own pockets, and released the chain.
"THE BLOW LANDED WITH A SMACK THAT JARRED THE VERY MARROW OF HIS BONES AND KEELED HIM OVER THE EDGE OF THE PORCH TO THE GROUND."
When Pearline recovered her breath she dropped flat upon the ground at her feet and howled like a Comanche until the going down of the sun.
Plaster did not attempt to console or quiet her. When he spoke again, he reached out and touched the bawling woman with his foot.
"Git up idjit!" he exclaimed. "Marse John expecks us to come an' repote to him an' git dese here handcuffs tuck off."
Sheriff John Flournoy was waiting for them as they came across his lawn to the porch where he sat.
Then for half an hour he listened to a tirade of crimination and recrimination which crackled with profane expletives like thorns under a pot. When Plaster paused to breathe, Pearline took up the complaint. When Pearline stopped from exhaustion, Plaster resumed his lamentations.
When the storm of vituperation subsided, Flournoy sat in his chair like a man who had been pounded over the head with a brick. It was some time before he could formulate his ideas. Then he spoke with difficulty.
"I judge from what I have heard that your three days' experience together has convinced you that your tastes are entirely dissimilar and your natures incompatible."
"The information you offer conveys to me the impression that a woman loves shadows, but a man loves sunshine and glare; a woman loves dress, but a man loves tobacco; a woman desires daintiness and neatness attended with any degree of discomfort, but a man prefers comfort with no matter how much litter and mess; a woman loves indoor sports, like sewing, and a man loves outdoor sports, like whittling sticks and making the acquaintance of a hound-dog with fleas on his body and mud on his feet; a man loves to sing and hear himself sing, and the woman prefers to hear some other man sing; a woman wants her female companions with their confidences and their secrets, and a man desires his male companions and their secrets, but neither party to the matrimonial alliance is willing that the partner should keep a secret. Am I right as far as I've gone?"
"Dat's right!" they said in positive tones.
"But de fuss part, Marse John, is de money!" the woman shrieked.
"Certainly," Flournoy agreed softly. "Matrimony is always a matter of money."
Then Flournoy took a key from his pocket and opened the bracelets on their wrists. The chain fell at their feet. The bride and bridegroom looked away, each ignoring the presence of the other.
Plaster Sickety thrust both hands into his pockets, brought out twenty-five dollars and thirty cents and laid it into the open palm of the sheriff.
"Fer Gawd's sake, git me a deevo'ce!" he pleaded.
"Make it two, Marse John," the girl urged. "I's plum' nauseated wid dat nigger man."
The bride and bridegroom turned and walked away, choosing different paths and going in opposite directions. They did not look back.
The sheriff stooped and picked up the rattling chain.
Then he went into the house and slammed the door.
The evening and the morning were the third day, and—