“Ef Skeeter wusn’t such a lightweight, dis whole chunk would hab been sp’iled,” he grinned. He felt better after eating the melon until he suddenly recalled that Skeeter had left the eating-house without paying for his meal. When Skeeter was outside of the restaurant, he promptly forgot his trousers and started for his home in a trot. He went up the long hill toward the Flournoy place like a brown shadow passing through the darkness, threw open the door of a little shed and seized the crank of his “flivver.” A moment later he was out in the public highway, speeding through the night toward the Nigger-Heel plantation, on which Mustard Prophet was the overseer. He found Mustard sitting on the porch of his house, shirtless and barefooted, smoking a vile corncob pipe. “Set down, Skeeter,” he said in greeting. “Take off all yo’ clothes an’ git cool. Dar ain’t no lady folks aroun’.” “I feel real chilly, Mustard,” Skeeter said in reply. “Dat is, I’s got cold foots.” “Whut ails you?” “I been hearin’ dat a move is started to kick you out as presidunt of de Liftup League.” “Dat’s so,” Mustard said indifferently. “Dey cusses me fer whut I does an’ dey cusses me fer whut I ain’t do, an’ now dey is tryin’ to boost me out an’ drap me down.” “I don’t favor it, Mustard,” Skeeter said earnestly. “I come out to offer my he’p. You oughter hab me to scuffle fer you durin’ de day while you got to wuck on dis plantation.” “Dat’s a good notion, Skeeter,” Mustard said thankfully. “I app’ints you he’per right now.” “Hol’ on, Mustard,” Skeeter said. “It don’t go so fast an’ easy as dat. In de fust place, I wants de Hen-Scratch saloon to be de headquarters of yo’ side in de race.” “I’ll arrange dat,” Mustard said easily. “In de nex’ place, I wants to run wid you on yo’ side fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter continued. “I’ll fix dat easy,” Mustard said. “Dar ain’t nobody wid good sense dat wants to be vice-presidunt of nothin’. Dat’s like bein’ de curl in a pig’s tail—jes’ ornamental behind.” “’Tain’t no diffunce, I wants dat job,” Skeeter insisted. “I announces you to-morrer,” Mustard said. “Dat’s all, Mustard,” Skeeter concluded, as he slapped his hat on his head. “I got to hustle back now an’ start my voters to wuckin’.” “Dar now!” Skeeter said to himself exultantly, as his little machine rattled off the miles back to Tickfall. “I done got dat fixed right. Figger is vice-presidunt on one side an’ I is vice-presidunt on de yuther side, an’ bofe sides is promised to make de Hen-Scratch deir headquarters.” Seven miles of sandy road slipped under his flying wheels like a brown ribbon while he contemplated this master stroke of business. He placed his little machine under the shed and climbed into bed before he spoke to himself again: “Dat’s whut I calls a good sense compromise.” IV