“Naw, suh. He’s organizin’. He done throwed up his Nights of Darkness Lodge job an’ is cornductin’ health resorts fer cullud pussons.” “Dar ain’t no sick niggers in Tickfall,” Skeeter said with relief. “He’s done busted in bizziness an’ don’t know it.” “Dar ain’t no real sick niggers,” Figger agreed. “But plenty of us feels jes’ tol’able an’ b’lieves dat we needs a rest.” “Restin’ time an’ Sunday comes nachel wid niggers,” Skeeter grinned. “You ain’t sweeped out dis saloon fer about six mont’s.” “Cain’t sweep her out now, Skeeter,” Figger replied hastily. “Fer a fack, I done come to ax you fer a lay-off fer about two weeks. I needs a change.” “Wharabouts you gwine change to?” Skeeter asked grouchily. “Out to de ole tabernacle an’ de prize-fight, picnic, baseball-groun’s, whar Brudder Wash is organizin’ his health resort.” “How come I ain’t heerd tell ’bout dat?” Skeeter asked. “He’s been keepin’ it sly because he wus skeart somebody else would think it up an’ beat him to it,” Figger explained. “He done leased de ole camp-groun’s complete, fixed up all de little shacks whar niggers kin stay, hired Shin Bone to run de resteraw, made a dancin’-floor in de ole tabernacle, rented a brass band, an’ is gittin’ ready to rake in de dollars.” “My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed in dismay. “I been livin’ in dis town all my days an’ I never thunk of dat gorgeous idear in my whole life.” “It shore is a dandy notion,” Figger said with admiration. “Dar’s fo’ springs of water, a great big lake to fish an’ swim in, plenty woods an’ play-groun’s.” “Gosh! Jes’ think of de money dat’s gwine miss my pants’ pocket,” Skeeter sighed. “Wash specifies dat dar is a Cooney Island in New Yawk an’ he’s gwine hab a Coon Island in Tickfall.” “Dat shore is put somepin over on me,” Skeeter mourned. “Ef you ain’t got no real good objections, I goes out dar to-night an’ stays a week,” Figger remarked. “I don’t like de notion of keepin’ dis saloon while you gallivants off to a nigger frolic,” Skeeter protested. “But I gotter go,” Figger assured him. “Nobody ain’t gotter go no place onless he wants to, excusin’ jail,” Skeeter grumbled. Figger Bush ended the argument by rising from the table, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and retiring to a little room in the rear of the bar to dress. Ten minutes later he came out with a new suit of clothes, a sunburst tie, a high collar and most expansive cuffs, and all the other paraphernalia of a dead-game sport out for a vacation. “I hates to leave you, Skeeter,” Figger remarked apologetically. “I’s sorry you is got a grouch. But ef I don’t show up at de tabernacle my grandpaw won’t like it.” “How come you is so suddent oneasy about displeasin’ Popsy Spout?” Skeeter wanted to know. “Dat ole man is got money in de bank. Some day he’s gwine haul off an’ die. When he do, he’ll inherit me his house an’ all his cash spondulix. Atter dat happens, I’ll buy one-half of dis Hen-Scratch saloon.”