“Figger,” he said pantingly, “dat gal nearly gibs me de jim-jams eve’y time I sees her. I loses all de good sense I’m got. I feels like a fool an’ I acks like a fool, an’ ’pears to me like dat gal is laughin’ at me all de time.” “I ’spect so,” Figger said commiseratingly, as he arose to go. “Dem females is mos’ in gineral laughin’ at us. But dem simpletoms you announce is shore a bad sign. Mattermony’ll ketch you ef you don’t watch out. Ef you needs any good advices, I ’speck you better send fer me.” Figger sauntered down to the depot, watched the passenger train arrive and depart, and then hurried back to the Hen-Scratch saloon. “Bad luck, Skeeter!” he howled, as soon as he entered the room. “Dat Tella Tandy went down to de deppo to meet a man an’ dat man looks like one of dese here watermillyumaires!” “Lawdymussy!” Skeeter squeaked, springing to his feet. “I knowed my luck wus too good to last. Whar is dat new nigger man at?” “Dey is bofe comin’ up dis way,” Figger informed him. “Dat new man is packin’ de Spit dawg. I figger de load will break him down about time he gits to de Hen-Scratch.” For ten minutes the two sat in gloomy silence. Skeeter lighted cigarette after cigarette, twiddled his thumbs, jiggered his feet, and acted generally like a man with the St. Vitus dance. Figger was more composed. He was thankful that he was merely an innocent bystander. At last Skeeter sighed: “Ef I lose dat gal, it’ll bust my heart, Figger. I been courtin’ her servigerous fer a week. My head is so full of tears now it would take a week to bail me out!” Voices were heard at the door and Skeeter arose tremblingly and walked out. Tella and the strange man were waiting for him. “Dis is my frein’, Mr. Deo Diddle, Skeeter,” Tella said easily. “I jes’ been tellin’ him how kind you wus to keep my dawg.” “Glad to meet yo’ ’quaintance,” Skeeter mumbled, holding out his hand. “Same back at you,” Deo replied. Then turning to Tella Tandy, he said: “Me an’ dis dawg is got a little bizzness wid Mr. Muskeeter Butts, Tella. You foller yo’ little nose down de street an’ see ef he don’t lead you somewhar else.” Skeeter and Deo Diddle entered the saloon and sat down at the table with Figger Bush. The dog sniffed around the room for a minute and then passed out toward the rear. Deo Diddle was about the size of Skeeter Butts, but it required no expert eyes to see that he was a perfect athlete. The poise of his head and body, the accuracy and decision of even the slightest move, the steady, assured gaze of his eyes indicated a man whose muscles and brain were trained in some field of endeavor which required both strength and wit. “At de fust offstartin’, Mr. Butts,” Deo Diddle began easily, “I announces my bizzness an’ de puppus of my visit to Tickfall: I’s a Monarch of de Manacle.” “You’s a--a--_which_?” Skeeter asked, his eyes sticking out like a bug’s.