Skeeter sat and cackled like another hen. “Shut up, you little devil!” Ginny Babe squalled. “I’ll ketch you an’ do you de same way!” “Whut ails de hen, Ginny?” Skeeter laughed. “She wants to sot, an’ I ain’t got no eggs to put under her,” Ginny whooped. “I locked her up in de wood-house an’ she foun’ a ole china door-knob an’ sot on dat. I put her in de corn-crib an’ she sot down on a lot of corn-cobs an’ tried to hatch ’em out. I’s ducked her in dat barrel of water ’bout fo’teen times, an’ it ain’t done no good whatsumever. I never _did_ see such a fool!” “Why don’t you try on somepin else?” Skeeter giggled. “Whut’s dat?” Ginny whooped. “Pour a leetle coal-ile on her tail an’ sot it on fire,” Skeeter snickered. “I figger she won’t sot no more atter dat.” “By gosh, I’ll do it!” Ginny Babe howled. She walked over and pushed the hen with her foot. “You don’t git no coal-ile on yo’ tail yit!” she bellowed. “But as soon as dem feathers gits dry, I got a good mind to try it!” Skeeter looked at Ginny Babe Chew, and a cold chill ran down his spine. She was the one woman in Tickfall of whom every negro was afraid. She was a wicked, vicious, horrible old woman, whose little, green pig eyes glowed poisonously through the rolls of facial flesh. She possessed an ugly and venomous laugh, and generally ended her profane and vicious remarks with an irritating chuckle. Ginny knew the history of all the people in Tickfall parish, both white and black, and most of her conversation on ordinary occasions was a discussion of their characters. She especially loved to drive nails in the coffins of moribund reputations. Now she sat down heavily and began a conversation upon her favorite theme. “I done wucked in de house of eve’y white man in dis parish whut is able to hire he’p,” she bawled. “I knows all de fambly secrets, an’ I done got my little, bullet eye on all de fambly skelingtons. I’s made acquaintance wid all de niggers in dis parish, too, an’ I tells you dis--some niggers is bad, an’ yuther niggers is wusser; but dar ain’t no good niggers, livin’ or dead! I knows ’em! So I spends my happy old age findin’ out all de bad I kin about ’em!” “Yes’m,” Skeeter gasped, looking at her with frightened eyes. “All you niggers in Tickfall--whoof!” the old woman exploded. “I hopes we is as good as most niggers,” Skeeter said timidly. “Whoof!” the old woman exploded again. “Does you want me to tell you whut I knows about _you_, Skeeter Butts?” “Fer Gawd’s sake, no’m!” Skeeter quavered. “My memory is powerful good.” The woman’s fat body shook with silent laughter and her little pig eyes glowed like emeralds. She laid a heavy, fat hand on Skeeter’s knee. “I’s got a hoodoo face, Skeeter!” she bawled. “When a nigger looks at my fat mug, all de meanness in him comes right out on his face so I kin read it like de white folks reads a book. Yes, suh, I got a hoodoo face!”