The Weber Literary Journal Leave It To Rastus By Edwin Stoker ASTUS Abraham Pah-nicious Johnsing, you git directly outa youah Pa's trowsah pockets. Don' ya know if you should take anything, it would be stealing? Rastus did know from experience. "An you knows what the thief gets when he dies nothing but a deep place and a hot place jes' like any othaw sin-nah in the fiery furnace of hell to burn an' frizzle an' fry." Rastus shuddered at this parental warning, but this was one of those times when the boy just had to take one more chance on going to hell, because Pop Johnson's jeans held some very dear possessions that his son Rastus would care to borrow. So Rastus just took advantage of his Pop's sleeping qualities, to turn the trick. "Rastus, it's a fack, you don' min' yo' mammy any moah. Ah knows what yo got from them they ah pockets, as well as yo does. Now, you han' them theyah bones ovah heah befoh I count ten." Rastus wickedly denied having the valuable "come-seven-come-eleven" articles in his possession. His objection was, however, overruled, and his Mammy proceeded to search him, but, as always, without result. No woman ever had a better or larger sense of responsibility than Mrs. Lilac Madonna Johnson. Against great obstacles, she was trying her level best to live up to her estimation of her own middle name, and the life rules of a good Christian woman as set down by Minister Lemuel Samuel Jenkins of the Brooker and Twenty-first corner colored Baptist Church, whose texts were either from Matthew or Mark, or the present day evils of the "crap game." She was exerting her influence to keep her rebellious "dawling" from the popular primrose path, and from within the realm of the still more popular and dangerous sport of rolling-the-bones. Mammy Johnson had discovered, though, long ago, that Brooker street was no street to raise good "chil'un" the sound, black, holsum, Georgia kind. Rastus A. P. Johnson, Brooker street juvenile Crap champ, was on his way to school. Seven of Rastus' twelve years had seen him attend the Brooker street public school, each year getting that 28 The Weber Literary Journal much worse, and each teacher, that much fiercer than her predecessor, until now. Rastus, on this particular morning couldn't think of enough bad thoughts about "ol' Mis Higgins," who niggardly, even dared to try to usurp his crap throne, by taking his well-known, famous bones away from him, along with a quaint China tea-pot, a Chinese fire-cracker, a pair of chopsticks, and some unpolished rice, his winnings of the noon-hour game. Needless to say, these articles once belonged to an oriental. In fact, up until the beginning of the "bone tournament," Wong-Lee, Rastus's best friend, was the proud possessor of these much valued articles. And talk about sportmanship when Miss Higgins indignantly stood up before the class and asked, "Who is the rightful owner of these articles do you know anything about them? Wong-Lee did that wicked little gambler, Rastus Johnson, take them away from you this noon?" Wong-Lee shook his head. "Now, Wong, are you telling me the truth?" "Me know nothing about," was all she could possibly pump from him. So she let him go home when it became time; but Rastus was obliged to remain one full hour after school, and listen to a sermon concerning the evils of the crap game a sermon of which the very Reverend Lemuel Samuel Jenkins would have been proud. Wong-Lee patiently listened and waited outside for his inseparable companion, and fervently gave thanks to his sixth ancestor back for saving his friend from a sound beating. When Rastus finally did appear, the two boys made their way homeward. Their homes were situated not a block from each other, on crowded Brooker Street. Wong-Lee was an orphan, who resided with one of his own kind, and worked for Wing Chang, the richest Chinee in town, and owner of the tea room on Brooker. Wing Chang's Oriental Tea Room was a favorite of society "slumming parties." Every evening, Chang got his crowd of diners, who paid any size of a price to eat in "oriental" splendor. It was rumored that Chang's business did not cease at the two a.m. closing of his tearoom doors. Business of some sort seemed to continue, although quietly, way upstairs, above the law, in the rarely day-visited parlors of Chang. Wong-Lee depended on Chang for his bread and butter and rice and he often slaved away in the kitchen for fifteen hours, earning it. 29