“Well, I’m a son-of-a-gun,” blurted the Imperial Grand Wizard. “That boy thinks o’ everything.”
But Givens was greatly depressed, much more so than the others. He had really believed all that he had preached about white supremacy, race purity and the menace of the alien, the Catholic, the Modernist and the Jew. He had always been sincere in his prejudices.
When they arrived at the Valbuena Air Field outside Mexico City, a messenger brought Bunny a telegram.
“You better thank your stars you got away from there, Matt,” he grinned, handing his friend the telegram. “See what my gal says?”
Matthew glanced over the message and handed it to Givens without comment. It read:
Hope you arrive safely Senator Kretin lynched in Union Station Stop Snobbcraft and Buggerie reported in flight Stop Goosie and Gump almost unanimously reelected Stop Government has declared martial law until disturbances stop Stop When can I come?
“Who’s this Scranton broad?” queried Matthew in a whisper, cutting a precautionary glance at his wife.
“A sweet Georgia brown,” exclaimed Bunny enthusiastically.
“No!” gasped Matthew, incredulous.
“She ain’t no Caucasian!” Bunny replied.
“She must be the last black gal in the country,” Matthew remarked, glancing enviously at his friend. “How come she didn’t get white, too?”
“Well,” Bunny replied, a slight hint of pride in his voice. “She’s a race patriot. She’s funny that way.”
“Well, for cryin’ out loud!” exclaimed Matthew, scratching his head and sort of half grinning in a bewildered way. “What kind o’ sheba is that?”
Old man Givens came over to where they were standing, the telegram in his hand and an expression of serenity now on his face.
“Boys,” he announced, “it looks like it’s healthier down here right now than it is back there in Georgia.”
“Looks like it’s healthier?” mocked Bunny. “Brother, you know damn well it’s healthier!”
XIII
Toward eleven o’clock on the evening before election day, a long, low roadster swept up to the door of a stately country home near Richmond, VA, crunched to a stop, the lights were extinguished and two men, one tall and angular, the other huge and stout, catapulted from the car. Without wasting words, they raced around the house and down a small driveway to a rambling shed in a level field about three hundred yards to the rear. Breathless, they halted before the door and beat upon it excitedly.
“Open up there, Frazier!” ordered Snobbcraft, for it was he. “Open that door.” There was no answer. The only reply was the chirping of crickets and the rustle of branches.
“He must not be here,” said Dr. Buggerie, glancing fearfully over his shoulder and wiping a perspiring brow with a damp handkerchief.
“The damned rascal had better be here,” thundered the Democratic candidate for Vice-President, beating again on the door. “I telephoned him two hours ago to be ready.”
As he spoke someone unlocked the door and rolled it aside an inch or two.
“Is that you, Mr. Snobbcraft?” asked a sleepy voice from the darkness within.
“Open that damned door, you fool,” barked Snobbcraft. “Didn’t I tell you to have that plane ready when we got here? Why don’t you do as you’re told?” He and Dr. Buggerie helped slide the great doors back. The man Frazier snapped on the lights, revealing within a big, three-motored plane with an automobile nestling under each of its wings.
“I—I kinda fell asleep waitin’ for you, Mr. Snobbcraft,” Frazier apologized, “but everything’s ready.”
“All right, man,” shouted the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association, “let’s get away from here then. This is a matter of life and death. You ought to have had the plane outside and all warmed up to go.”
“Yes sir,” the man mumbled meekly, busying himself.
“These damned, stupid, poor white trash!” growled Snobbcraft, glaring balefully at the departing aviator.
“D‑D‑Don’t antagonize him,” muttered Buggerie. “He’s our only chance to get away.”
“Shut up, fool! If it hadn’t been for you and your damned fool statistics we wouldn’t be in this fix.”
“You wanted them, didn’t you?” whined the statistician in defense.
“Well, I didn’t tell you to leave that damned summary where anybody could get hold of it.” Snobbcraft replied, reproachfully. “That was the most stupid thing I ever heard of.”
Buggerie opened his mouth to reply but said nothing. He just glared at Snobbcraft who glared back at him. The two men presented a disheveled appearance. The Vice-Presidential candidate was haggard, hatless, collarless and still wore his smoking jacket. The eminent statistician and author of The Incidence of Psittacosis Among the Hiphopa Indians of the Amazon Valley and Its Relation to Life Insurance Rates in the United States, looked far from dignified with no necktie, canvas breeches, no socks and wearing a shooting jacket he had snatched from a closet on his way out of the house. He had forgotten his thick spectacles and his bulging eyes were red and watery. They paced impatiently back and forth, glancing first at the swiftly working Frazier and then down the long driveway toward the glowing city.
Ten minutes they waited while Frazier went over the plane to see that all was well. Then they helped him roll the huge metal bird out of the hangar and on to the field. Gratefully they climbed inside and fell exhausted on the soft-cushioned seats.
“Well, that sure is a relief,” gasped the ponderous Buggerie, mopping his brow.
“Wait until we get in the air,” growled Snobbcraft. “Anything’s liable to happen after that mob tonight. I was never so humiliated in my life. The idea of that gang of poor white trash crowding up my steps and yelling nigger. It was disgraceful.”
“Yes, it was terrible,” agreed Buggerie. “It’s a good thing they didn’t go in the rear where your car was. We wouldn’t have been able to get away.”
“I thought there would be a demonstration,” said Snobbcraft, some of his old sureness returning, “that’s why I phoned Frazier to get ready. … Oh, it’s a damned shame to be run
