Chapter 7

Zing!

The owner of the red fez and the night-blooming hiccoughs craved another pillow and a table. The Wildcat delivered the table and fixed it into place. He returned to the linen closet to retrieve a pillow case therefrom. When the door opened, Lily the mascot goat, tired of the dark confines of her retreat, burst forth and galloped down the aisle of the car.

The Wildcat abandoned his pillow case industry and spent the next two minutes in rounding up his protege.

"You ramblin' wreck, come back heah befo' Ah makes a rug out ob yo' skin."

He returned Lily to her jail and proceeded to deliver the second pillow to the owner of the alcohol snorts. In common with the rest of the occupants of the car, that individual voiced his curiosity concerning the animated mascot.

"Son, who owns the goat?"

"Cap'n, suh, Ah owns him now, but some slaughter house man gwine to git him 'less he ca'ms down."

"What'll you take for him?"

The Wildcat suddenly remembered his financial status. Hard money at the moment made a strong appeal.

"Cap'n, suh, you means you craves to buy 'at goat?"

In the mind of the Potent Noble of the Mysterious Mecca had bloomed a Great Idea, wherein the galloping Lily would provide entertainment in carload lots for the Convention-bound brethren of the Conclave.

"Some days Ah'd sell 'at goat fo' a thin dime. Otheh days Ah'd give a boy a hund'ed dollahs for killin' him."

"What'll you take for him cash down, f.o.b. Lower 7, car Mazeppa?"

The Wildcat studied for a moment, and then long months of association clinched the tie which Lady Luck had woven between him and the prodigal Lily.

"Cap'n, suh, Ah spec' Ah wouldn't sell 'at goat fo' mo'n a million dollahs. Me an' Lily fit so many battles togetheh in France and on boa'd de ol' iron boat comin' home 'at Ah kain't see no money big enough to 'suage mah grief is we divo'ced. Bible says, 'Whither the goat goes, me too.' 'Spec Ah kain't sell him."

The companion Noble across the table from the hiccoughing gentleman offered a suggestion. "Round 'em both up for the trip. The Pullman gang'll fix it for us."

"Good scheme, Jim. The old bean isn't any too clear this morning or I'd thought of that myself." The owner of the red fezant turned to the Wildcat.

"What's your name, son?"

"Dey named me Marsden, suh--Vitus Marsden--but folks calls me Wilecat."

"If I can't buy the goat, I guess we'll have to negotiate the custody of your feline corpus from the Pullman organization for the duration of the Big Show."

"Yessuh." The Wildcat did not understand the big words, but whenever he did not understand it was his principle to smile and agree to anything that white gentlemen said.

"Yessuh. Ain't it de truf'?" He returned to the smoking compartment, where the Backslid Baptist was auditing his tips.

The Backslid Baptist was busy at the moment excavating a busted cork out of the neck of a queer looking square bottle.

"Baptis', whut you got?"

"Smells lak equalizer. Wait till Ah gits dis cork out, an' us sees."

"Whut dat sign say on de bottle?"

The Backslid Baptist inspected the label affixed to the flat side of the bottle. "Ol' sign reads 'Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia.' Bam! Un-konkered de ol' cork. Smell dat. 'At learns you not to believe in signs. When yo' eyes sees one thing an' yo' nose sees another you betteh believe yo' nose." He took a long drag at the bottle and passed it over to the Wildcat.

"Whuf! Ol' lady in Lower 6 felt poo'ly dis mawnin', but she 'sorbed th'ee drams f'm dis heah bottle, an' so far she's et twelve dollahs' wuth ob grub up ahaid in de dinin' cah."

The Wildcat swung on to the "Acrobatic Spirits of Pneumonia," lingering at the spout for several disappointing seconds after the contents of the bottle had gurgled down his neck.

"Whuf! Ah missed de pneumonia, Backslid, but Ah sho' feels acrobatic. How come de lady lose de bottle?"

"She done got careless when de spirits come. You better th'o 'at glassware away now an' git ready fo' tellin' de boss how you craves a porter's job."

Half an hour later, leading his mascot goat and closely convoyed by the Backslid Baptist, the Wildcat walked down the platform in the dark trainshed of the station in Chicago. Throughout the long ride down Prairie Avenue to the habitation of the forger from whom the recommending letters were to be obtained the Wildcat's woolly bean spun with the momentum which he had drained from the bottle abandoned by the careless lady in Lower 6.

An hour later, armed with five ironclad letters, he returned along the route, arriving finally at the portals of the office building on West Adams Street wherein Pullman porters are created from select brunet humanity.

Presently, across a wide desk he confronted Authority. A kindly gentleman questioned him, and to the questions he replied with an assortment of impromptu lies whose range and ingenuity busted every previous record for careless language.

Ten minutes later he was a hired man.

"C'm on heah. 'At's all." The Backslid Baptist at his elbow sensed the successful conclusion of the interview.

"You mean Ah's a porter?" the bewildered Wildcat asked when the pair had gained the street level.

"Ah'll say you is."

"An' all de tips I gits is mine to keep?"

"Dey is previdin' you gits outen yo' trance an' takes yo' cah on de 4:10."

"Hot dam, Lily! C'm on heah. Us weahs a blue coat all de time an' don't do nuthin' but spend de money whut de white folks showers down."

"You betteh make arrangements at some livery stable to p'vide board an' room fo' Lily whilst you is A.W.O.L."

"How come? Whah at I goes de goat goes."

"Not on de Pullman run. Ah dead-heads you once, an' de goat lak to ruined eve'ybody in de cah. No suh! Kain't run no trains an' no mascot at de same time. De rule book leaves out goats, but does you lug Lily wid you, yo' fust run sho' is yo' last."

The Wildcat faced the moment of a great decision. "Den dey won't be no fust trip. Cm on heah, Lily. Much 'bliged, Baptis'. Me an' Lily looks fo' a job whah at dey ain't no rules again' mascots."

The Wildcat headed south along Michigan Avenue, and in a little while he and Lily were adrift in a sea of humanity.

The Backslid Baptist grunted his disgust and went about his own affairs.