“Wash,” he said after a little conversation, “I understands dat you is got a prize widder in dis show.” The big black eyed Skeeter for a moment with suspicion. He took the time to help himself to a big chew of tobacco before he answered, watching Skeeter covertly all the time. At last he said: “I ain’t heerd tell about dat. But I ain’t supprized none. I got all de attrackshuns on dis Coon Island whut is.” “Dey tells me dis widder is got a dead husbunt an’ five hundred dollars,” Skeeter continued. Wash dropped his plug of tobacco and stooped to pick it up. That Skeeter had this information was not a surprise to him; it was a shock. “Who mought dat widder be?” Wash asked. “Sister Solly Skaggs,” Skeeter informed him. “I knows her,” Wash groaned. “Fat—O Lawd! Ef dat gal wuster drap dead, dey’d hab to git a mud-scow outen de river fer a coffin, an’ de only hole in de groun’ big enough to put her in is Marse Tom’s sand pit. Dat five hundred dollars don’t int’rust my mind, naw, suh, not at all, not at all!” “Don’t waste no time thinkin’ about it,” Skeeter sighed. “Pap Curtain is done spoke fer it—de fat’s in de fire.” “Which?” Wash Jones exclaimed in a tone that popped like a gun. “Pap Curtain?” “Pap done pulled de curtain down on de widder,” Skeeter assured him. “Nobody else needn’t look at her charms.” Wash Jones turned around three times, as if looking for some place to go and practically undecided about what direction to choose. Skeeter wandered on disconsolately and finally found himself beside the old tabernacle. An aged man approached him. Skeeter looked for a place to escape, but found no avenue of exit and stood his ground. The venerable man was Popsy Spout. “I don’t ketch on ’bout dis, Skeeter,” he said in the high, shrill complaining voice of senility. “Dis here ain’t de place whut I thought it wus. ’Tain’t de same place whut it uster be befo’ an’ endurin’ of de war. When do de religium exoncises begin?” “I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “Ax Wash Jones.” “I axed him. Wash said ef de people wanted religium doin’s dey could start ’em deyselfs,” Popsy whined. “Wash said he wus jes’ de servunt of de people fer so much money per each people.” “Dat’s right,” Skeeter laughed. “I thought dey wus gwine hab preachin’ in dat ole tabernacle to-night,” Pap complained. “Instid of dat, dey’s gwine had a dance fer a prize! Yas, suh—whut do Gawd think of dat? A dance fer a prize?” “I hopes dat Pap Curtain slips up an’ breaks bofe behime legs,” Skeeter remarked bitterly. “’Tain’t no use hopin’,” the old man chuckled. “Pap is like me—spry on his legs fer a ole man. But Pap an’ me don’t favor dancin’. We been talkin’ it over. I deespise a nigger dat dances. Ef any of my kin-folks cuts a shuffle on dat flo’ dis night, dey ain’t no kinnery of mine no more.” “I ’speck I better go gib Figger a warnin’ right now,” Skeeter exclaimed eagerly, glad to find a reason for departure.