“Dat ole gizzard says he’s gwine live till he’s one hundred year ole,” Skeeter reminded him. “Dat means you got to wait thirty year fer yo’ money.” “Mebbe he’s done miscalculated ’bout how long he’s gwine hang on de bush,” Figger grinned. “I been pussuadin’ him to take a little swim in de Cooley Lake eve’y atternoon when we gits out dar, an’ you know dar’s allergaters in dat lake whut kin swaller Joner an’ de whale.” “Ef a allergater swallered Popsy, he’d treat him jes’ like de whale done Joner—he’d git dat nigger off his stomick as soon as he could,” Skeeter growled. “’Tain’t so, Skeeter,” Figger argued earnestly. “When one of dese here Loozanny allergaters swallers a nigger, he crawls out on a mud-bank an’ goes to sleep an’ fergits all about dat cullud pusson in his midst.” “Ef I could git my wish, I’d be glad if one dem things would chaw up you an’ Popsy, too,” Skeeter retorted. Figger sat down and lighted a cigarette, wondering how he could placate Skeeter for leaving him alone with the saloon. He could think of nothing else to say, so he changed the theme a little: “Whut bothers my mind a little, Skeeter, is de fack dat Popsy ain’t got no real good notion whut kind of doin’s will be at de tabernacle. He remembers how ’twus befo’ de war when de white folks helt religium-meetin’s out dar. He wants me to go an’ attend de religium services so me an’ Scootie will git gooder dan we are.” Skeeter brightened up and laughed. “Dat means de joke is on you an’ Scootie, Figger,” he guffawed. “I’d druther hab de seben-year itch wid nothin’ to scratch wid—I’d druther be a drag-log tied to a houn’-dawg—dan listen to dat ole Popsy fussin’ ’bout how good things useter wus an’ how much wusser things is now. Go to it, Figger! You got my permission fer a week’s leave-off.” “I been tellin’ you I warn’t so awful anxious to go,” Figger reminded him. “You ain’t ’pressed dat fack on my mind very hard,” Skeeter replied. “I wants you to come in eve’y mawnin’ an’ barkeep. You kin go out an’ enjoy Popsy at night.” “I’ll be in to-morrer mawnin’ early,” Figger answered, as he left. But Figger did not appear in the saloon until the next day at noon. Skeeter had spent the time thinking up some especially cutting things to say to his partner, but Figger entered the place like a personified calamity and Skeeter forgot all his unkind words in an intense curiosity to know what had happened. “I done run up on somepin awful bad, Skeeter,” Figger groaned. “Pap Curtain is fixin’ to start a saloon.” “My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed. “De Hen-Scratch has been de onliest cullud saloon in Tickfall fer twenty year. Now dis here Pap Curtain is aimin’ to rival us out of bizzness.” “Dat’s de way de rabbit p’ints his nose,” Figger assured him. “Whar do he git de money?” Skeeter asked.