Gaitskill jerked open a drawer, slipped a heavy revolver in his side coat pocket, and stepped toward the front. Figger Bush’s shoe-brush mustache was pressed close to the glass, his hands were cupped around his eyes, and he was peering in to catch the first glimpse of Marse Tom as he came out of his office. “Here he am, niggers!” he bawled as the colonel fumbled with the fastening of the door. “Howdy, Marse Tom!” the greeting ran down the line with every variation of tone like a child playing a scale on the piano with one finger. “Well?” Gaitskill demanded in a loud tone. “What in the name of mud is the matter now?” “Us is all come to git in on de picnic, Marse Tom,” Figger Bush announced as spokesman. “We all paid our dollar an’ Pap tipped us off to come to de bank at closin’ time!” “Pap did what?” Gaitskill snapped. “He sold us a ticket to de excussion, Marse Tom,” Figger informed him. “Yes, suh, we is powerful glad you is gittin’ one up--peanuts an’ ice-water, an’ plenty brass-band music--all us niggers favors it fine!” “What in the devil are you talking about?” Gaitskill bawled. “Dunno, Marse Tom,” Prince Total spoke up. “Pap Curtain--he say you would tell us--it’s a plum’ secret.” “It certainly is!” Gaitskill howled, glaring at the negroes with eyes blood-shot and apoplectic. “It’s a deep, dark, impenetrable secret! Where is that fool, Pap Curtain?” “He went away on de dinner-time train, Marse Tom,” a voice informed him. “I seed him!” Gaitskill stood in the door of the bank in absolute ignorance of the whole business, wondering what to do. Finally he went back to Figger Bush’s first statement: “What did you say about a dollar?” he demanded. “Us paid a dollar fer de tip, Marse Tom,” Figger replied. Gaitskill’s eyes ran down the line as he counted the negroes. “Did all you darkies give Pap Curtain a dollar?” he asked in a loud voice. “Yes, suh!” one hundred and eighteen voices answered in a mighty chorus. “Good Lord!” Gaitskill snorted, as he gazed into their simple faces, marveling at their credulity. Every merchant in town had closed his store to see the fun. Nearly every white male inhabitant of Tickfall was lined up across the street. The crowd grinned its delight, and watched with breathless interest while Gaitskill fumbled with his problem in confusion and perplexity, and an ignorance which the negroes would not enlighten. Nothing tickles a Southern white man more than to see another white man all snarled up and in a jam of negro inanities. A fly in a barrel of molasses has about as good a chance of getting out of the mess. “What did Pap Curtain tell you bucks?” Gaitskill bellowed. There was a mighty clash of voices: “He specify excussion----” “Dancin’ on de deck eve’y night----” “Music an’ free vittles----” “Festerbul an’ juberlo----” “Picnic----” Then a loud voice inquired in a wailing whine: “Marse Tom, ef us don’t git all dem things Pap promised us, does us git our dollars back?”