George Schuyler: Black No More

“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 onto 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 out of your own home in this way!”

He glared balefully at the statistician who averted his gaze.

“All ready, sir,” announced Frazier, “where are we headed?”

“To my ranch in Chihuahua, and hurry up,” snapped Snobbcraft.

“But—But we ain’t got enough gas to go that far,” said Frazier. “I-I-You didn’t say you wanted to go to Mexico, Boss.”

Snobbcraft stared incredulously at the man. His rage was so great that he could not speak for a moment or two. Then he launched into a stream of curses that would have delighted a pirate captain, while the unfortunate aviator gaped indecisively.

In the midst of this diatribe, the sound of automobile horns and klaxons rent the air, punctuated by shouts and pistol shots. The three men in the plane saw coming down the road from the city a bobbing stream of headlights. Already the cavalcade was almost to the gate of the Snobbcraft country estate.

“Come on, get out of here,” gasped Snobbcraft. “We’ll get some gas farther down the line. Hurry up!”

Dr. Buggerie, speechless and purple with fear, pushed the aviator out of the plane. The fellow gave the propeller a whirl, jumped back into the cabin, took the controls and the great machine rolled out across the field.

They had started none too soon. The automobile cavalcade was already coming up the driveway. The drone of the motor drowned out the sound of the approaching mob but the two fearful men saw several flashes that betokened pistol shots. Several of the automobiles took out across the field in the wake of the plane. They seemed to gain on it. Snobbcraft and Buggerie gazed nervously ahead. They were almost at the end of the field and the plane had not yet taken to the air. The pursuing automobiles drew closer. There were several more flashes from firearms. A bullet tore through the side of the cabin. Simultaneously Snobbcraft and Buggerie fell to the floor.

At last the ship rose, cleared the trees at the end of the field and began to attain altitude. The two men took deep breaths of relief, rose and flung themselves on the richly upholstered seats.

A terrible stench suddenly became noticeable to the two passengers and the aviator. The latter looked inquiringly over his shoulder; Snobbcraft and Buggerie, their noses wrinkled and their foreheads corrugated, glanced suspiciously at each other. Both moved uneasily in their seats and looks of guilt succeeded those of accusation. Snobbcraft retreated precipitously to the rear cabin while the statistician flung open several windows and then followed the Vice-Presidential candidate.

Fifteen minutes later two bundles were tossed out of the window of the rear cabin and the two passengers, looking sheepish but much relieved, resumed their seats. Snobbcraft was wearing a suit of brown dungarees belonging to Frazier while his scientific friend had wedged himself into a pair of white trousers usually worn by Snobbcraft’s valet. Frazier turned, saw them, and grinned.

Hour after hour the plane winged its way through the night. Going a hundred miles an hour it passed town after town. About dawn, as they were passing over Meridian, Mississippi, the motor began to miss.

“What’s the matter there?” Snobbcraft inquired nervously into the pilot’s ear.

“The gas is runnin’ low,” Frazier replied grimly. “We’ll have to land pretty soon.”

“No, no, not in Mississippi!” gasped Buggerie, growing purple with apprehension. “They’ll lynch us if they find out who we are.”

“Well, we can’t stay up here much longer,” the pilot warned.

Snobbcraft bit his lip and thought furiously. It was true they would be taking a chance by landing anywhere in the South, let alone in Mississippi, but what could they do? The motor was missing more frequently and Frazier had cut down their speed to save gasoline. They were just idling along. The pilot looked back at Snobbcraft inquiringly.

“By God, we’re in a fix now,” said the president of the Anglo-Saxon Association. Then he brightened with a sudden idea. “We could hide in the rear cabin while Frazier gets gasoline,” he suggested.

“Suppose somebody looks in the rear cabin?” queried Buggerie, dolefully, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his white trousers. “There’s bound to be a lot of curious people about when a big plane like this lands in a farming district.”

As he spoke his left hand encountered something hard in the pocket. It felt like a box of salve. He withdrew it curiously. It was a box of shoe polish which the valet doubtless used on Snobbcraft’s footgear. He looked at it aimlessly and was about to thrust it back into the pocket when he had a brilliant idea.

“Look here, Snobbcraft,” he cried excitedly, his rheumy eyes popping out of his head farther than usual. “This is just the thing.”

“What do you mean?” asked his friend, eyeing the little tin box.

“Well,” explained the scientist, “you know real niggers are scarce now and nobody would think of bothering a couple of them, even in Mississippi. They’d probably be a curiosity.”

“What are you getting at, man?”

“This: we can put this blacking on our head, face, neck and hands, and no one will take us for Snobbcraft and Buggerie. Frazier can tell anybody that inquires that we’re two darkies he’s taking out of the country, or something like that. Then, after we get our gas and start off again, we can wash the stuff off with gasoline. It’s our only chance, Arthur. If we go down like we are, they’ll kill us sure.”

Snobbcraft pursed his lips and pondered the proposition for a moment. It was indeed, he saw, their only chance to effectively escape detection.

“All right,” he agreed, “let’s hurry up. This ship won’t stay up much longer.”

Industriously they daubed each other’s head, neck, face, chest, hands and arms with the shoe polish. In five minutes they closely resembled a brace of mammy singers. Snobbcraft hurriedly instructed Frazier.