“Aw, I know you’re lying now, Uncle Dan,” Jimmy laughed.
“No, I ain’t, sah! … Hee! Hee! … I were a great one when I were young! Yes, sah!” The old man went on undaunted. “I went an’ snuck off to a dance one night, me an’ nudder boy, went ’way ovah in Macon County at ole man Laird’s plantation, who been a bitter enemy to our white folks. Did I ever tell you ’bout it? We took one o’ ole massa’s best hosses out de barn to ride, after he done gone to his bed. … Well, sah! It were late when we got started, an’ we rid dat hoss lickety-split uphill an’ down holler, ovah de crick an’ past de mill, me an’ ma buddy both on his back, through de canebrake an’ up anudder hill, till he wobble an’ foam at de mouth like he’s ’bout to drap. When we git to de dance, long ’bout midnight, we jump off dis hoss an’ ties him to a post an’ goes in de cabin whar de music were—an’ de function were gwine on big. Man! We grabs ourselves a gal an’ dance till de moon riz, kickin’ up our heels an’ callin’ figgers, an’ jest havin’ a scrumptious time. Ay, Lawd! We sho did dance! … Well, come ’long ’bout two o’clock in de mawnin’, niggers all leavin’, an’ we goes out in de yard to git on dis hoss what we had left standin’ at de post. … An’ Lawd have mercy—de hoss were dead! Yes, sah! He done fell down right whar he were tied, eyeballs rolled back, mouth a-foamin’, an’ were stone-dead! … Well, we ain’t knowed how we gwine git home ner what we gwine do ’bout massa’s hoss—an’ we was skeered, Lawdy! ’Cause we know he beat us to death if he find out we done rid his best hoss anyhow—let lone ridin’ de crittur to death. … An’ all de low-down Macon niggers what was at de party was whaw-whawin’ fit to kill, laughin’ ’cause it were so funny to see us gittin’ ready to git on our hoss an’ de hoss were dead! … Well, sah, me an’ ma buddy ain’t wasted no time. We took dat animule up by de hind legs an’ we drug him all de way home to massa’s plantation befo’ day! We sho did! Uphill an’ down holler, sixteen miles! Yes, sah! An’ put dat damn hoss back in massa’s barn like he war befo’ we left. An’ when de sun riz, me an’ ma buddy were in de slavery quarters sleepin’ sweet an’ lowly-like as if we ain’t been nowhar. … De next day old massa ’maze how dat hoss die all tied up in his stall wid his halter on! An’ we niggers ’maze, too, when we heard dat massa’s hoss been dead, ’cause we ain’t knowed a thing ’bout it. No, sah! Ain’t none o’ us niggers knowed a thing! Hee! Hee! Not a thing!”
“Weren’t you scared?” asked Sandy.
“Sho, we was scared,” said Uncle Dan, “but we ain’t act like it. Niggers was smart in them days.”
“They’re still smart,” said Jap Logan, “if they can lie like you.”
“I mean!” said Buster.
“Uncle Dan’s the world’s champeen liar,” drawled a tall lanky boy. “Come on, let’s chip in and buy him a sandwich, ’cause he’s lied enough fo’ one evening.”
They soon crowded into the lunchroom and sat on stools at the counter ordering soda or ice-cream from the fat good-natured waitress. While they were eating, a gambler bolted in from the back room of the pool hall with a handful of coins he had just won.
“Gonna feed ma belly while I got it in ma hand,” he shouted. “Can’t tell when I might lose, ’cause de dice is runnin’ they own way tonight. Say, Mattie,” he yelled, “tell chef to gimme a beefsteak all beat up like Jim Jeffries, cup o’ coffee strong as Jack Johnson, an’ come flyin’ like a airship so I can get back in the game. Tell that kitchen buggar sweet-papa Stingaree’s out here!”
“All right, keep yo’ collar on,” said Mattie. “De steak’s got to be cooked.”
“What you want, Uncle Dan?” yelled the gambler to the old man. “While I’s winnin’, might as well feed you, too. Take some ham and cabbage or something. That sandwich ain’t ’nough to fill you up.”
Uncle Dan accepted a plate of spareribs, and Stingaree threw down a pile of nickels on the counter.
“Injuns an’ buffaloes,” he said loudly. “Two things de white folks done killed, so they puts ’em on de backs o’ nickels. … Rush up that steak there, gal, I’s hongry!”
Sandy finished his drink and bought a copy of the Chicago Defender, the World’s Greatest Negro Weekly, which was sold at the counter. Across the front in big red letters there was a headline: Negro Boy Lynched. There was also an account of a race riot in a Northern industrial city. On the theatrical page a picture of pretty Baby Alice Whitman, the tap-dancer, attracted his attention, and he read a few of the items there concerning colored shows; but as he was about to turn the page, a little article in the bottom corner made him pause and put the paper down on the counter.
Actress Makes Hit
St. Louis, MO, Aug. 3: Harrietta Williams, sensational young blues-singer, has been packing the Booker Washington Theatre to the doors here this week. Jones and Jones are the headliners for the all-colored vaudeville bill, but the singing of Miss Williams has been the outstanding drawing card. She is being held over for a continued engagement, with Billy Sanderlee at the piano.
“Billy Sanderlee,” said Buster, who was looking over Sandy’s shoulder. “That’s that freckled-faced yellow guy who used to play for dances around here, isn’t it? He could really beat a piano
