Skeeter nodded in speechless comprehension of the tragedy, the hand which held the pie wavered and sank slowly to the table, for that pie didn’t look good to Skeeter any more. “Dem Mustard Prophet voters say dey ain’t never comin’ in here no more,” Shin said dolefully. “Ef dey don’t feel no better dan I does now, dey wouldn’t fotch you much trade, fer dey couldn’t eat no more dan a brass monkey,” Skeeter sighed, pulling his slice of watermelon closer to him, although unconscious of his action. Beads of apprehensive perspiration stood out on his forehead and a sudden weakness assailed him. “Whut ails you, Skeeter?” Shin inquired solicitously, for Skeeter had suddenly collapsed like a punctured tire. “Don’t you feel good?” “Somepin I done et is disagreed wid me,” Skeeter moaned. “Lemme git dis coffee down me befo’ I die!” Shin waited until Skeeter consumed his coffee and rallied. “Of co’se, Whiffle cain’t he’p bein’ my wife, an’ she cain’t he’p bein’ kin to Pap, an’ we bofe cain’t he’p it ef Pap runs fer presidunt, but we shore is got our nose broke.” “Don’t tell me no more, Shinny,” Skeeter exclaimed, waving both hands and rising to his feet. “My head is crazy now.” “Is you got troubles, too?” Shin asked sympathetically. “Troubles?” Skeeter howled. “Ain’t you heerd about Figger Bush? He’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt wid Pap Curtain.” “You an’ me bofe blowed up suckers, Skeeter,” Shin said in tragic tones. “Our bizzness is bum an’ busted.” “It’s powerful bad, Shinny,” Skeeter agreed. “Badder dan you think, Skeeter,” Shin said. “Pap an’ Figger is shore to be elected.” “How does you dope dat out?” Skeeter asked, panting for breath. “It lines up dis way,” Shin informed him. “Ginny Babe Chew is runnin’ her petticoat pol’tics fer presidunt. All of Pap’s follerers is sinners in de sight of de Lawd, an’ Ginny Babe Chew is done pronounced on deir sins copious an’ frequent, so Pap an’ his crowd hates her. In dat case, Mustard Prophet ain’t gwine git as many votes as he oughter had because Ginny Babe is runnin’ an’ she’ll git her voters from Mustard’s crowd. Of co’se, when de high-brows splits up deir vote, Pap an’ Figger will snow ’em over an’ got in solid.” Skeeter felt a sudden weakness in his knees and sat down forcibly on the top of the table. Whereupon he felt considerable moisture in the vicinity of his coat-tail and sprang up to find that he had seated himself upon his slice of watermelon. “By jacks!” he exclaimed dramatically. “Figger is done ruint my bizzness an’ I done ruint my pants!” “Ef I wus you, I’d git rid of ’em bofe,” Shin suggested, as Skeeter walked out of the restaurant, wiping the moisture from his trousers with his handkerchief. When Skeeter had gone, Shin found that the slice of watermelon had not been completely crushed and was not entirely unedible, so he drew himself up to the table and thankfully ate the uninjured part.