“Gimme somepin to hold on to, niggers,” Figger Bush snickered, as he sat down with pretended weakness in a chair and grasped the legs of the table. “Here’s one nigger whut says he seen a chariot of fire, and here comes a secont nigger whut says he took a ride in it.”
“’Twarn’t no chariot of fire,” Cutt said easily. “It was a airship. Didn’t none of you niggers ever see no airplane?”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter Butts answered. “I done seen a millyum of ’em in N’Awleens. But you is de fust cullud aviator I’s seen.”
“Dar ain’t many in de worl’,” Cutt said quietly. “I reckin I’m about de fust nigger flier in de worl’.”
“Listen to dat,” Vinegar Atts exploded. “Ef I hadn’t been so skeart I’d ’a’ had good comp’ny back to town.”
“Wus you de brudder dat wus bellerin’ so loud?” Cutt inquired. “I heard somebody, but I couldn’t locate ’em. I couldn’t find no good landin’ place close to town. I wus skeart I’d tear up a lot of fences an’ telegram poles ef I landed in Tickfall. I wus skeart I’d hab to pay fer ’em. So I landed out in de swamp.”
“Dat wus right,” Figger Bush laughed. “No Tickfall niggers, excusin’ Skeeter Butts, is got to see a airship, an’ I b’lieves dat Skeeter is lyin’. Ef you’d landed in town, all us Tickfalls would hab fell in a well or run ourselfs to death.”
At this moment the green-baize doors of the saloon were pushed open and a white man entered. The third man had arrived in Tickfall.
At first glance he appeared to be a mechanic. His hands were large, black with the grime of machinery, and hard. His face and clothes were streaked with grease. The skin of his face had been whipped by the air until it was tanned like leather.
“Good evenin’ boss,” Skeeter exclaimed, standing up and taking the stranger in at a glance. “Er—dis here is a cullud bar, an’ us cain’t serve de white——”