“Don’t preach so loud, Popsy,” Pap said with a warning hiss. “You mought hurt dat cullud lady’s feelin’s.” “I ain’t preachin’,” Popsy snapped. “I’s tellin’ facks. Excusin’ dat, she ain’t got no feelin’s. Her feelin’s is padded two-foot deep in fat. I bet she’s got some age on her, too.” “Not too much age fer a widder,” Pap said. “An’ she’s wuth consid’able money since her fust husbunt up an’ died on her. Five hundred dollars will keep dat woman fat fer a long time.” “Why don’t you git in de race, Pap?” Popsy suggested. “You ain’t got no wife now.” “Dat’s my bizzness right now,” Pap grinned. “I needs a little cash money to start a saloon.” “You ain’t figgerin’ to buy out Figger an’ Skeeter in de Hen-Scratch, is you?” Popsy asked. “Naw, suh, I’s fixin’ to run ’em out,” Pap said confidently, as he arose and walked away. Popsy arose, too, pushed his way through the crowd and went in search of Figger Bush. He found Figger and his wife and Skeeter Butts in the Shin Bone eating-house. He hastened to their table, rested his rusty stove-pipe hat upon the top of the table and sat down. “How come you an’ Skeeter is bofe lef’ yo’ bizzness to come out here, Figger?” he inquired. “Dar ain’t no bizzness wid dis frolic gwine on,” Figger said. “You better git to wuckin’ up some new bizzness,” the old man remarked. “Pap Curtain is jes’ tole me he wus gwine run you-alls out.” “We been talkin’ about dat,” Skeeter broke in. “Pap’s tryin’ to pick a widder an’ us is wonderin’ how we kin bump him off de job.” “I’s gittin’ to be a awful ole fool,” Popsy sighed. “I jes’ dis minute suggested to Pap dat he ought to marry dat widder an’ git her out of her misery an’ her mournin’.” “Whut you mean by doin’ dat, Popsy?” Skeeter snapped. “You done ruint us. I’s thinkin’ about firin’ Figger now because our bizzness is got so bum wid prohibition an’ all dem yuther troubles.” “Mebbe I could go back an’ tell Pap he is makin’ a miscue at his age,” Popsy proposed. “You better go do somepin,” Skeeter snapped. “You go potterin’ aroun’ an’ spile my trade an’ I’ll kick Figger out an’ you’ll hab dis here wuthless nigger to suppote.” “Not ef I kin he’p it,” Popsy said positively. “I’ll shore git busy an’ c’reck dat mistake. I needs my dollars fer my own use. I’s fixin’ to spend ’em in my ole age, when I gits ole.” At this moment Wash Jones stepped to the middle of the floor, pulled proudly at one of his squirrel-tail mustaches, knocked upon a dining-table with the nicked edge of a thick, granite saucer, and commanded silence. “I announces dar will be a prize-dance at de tabernacle to-night. It will be de last dance of de evenin’. Five cents lets you into de tabernacle to perceive de dancers, ten cents will gib you de right to dance. At de end of de last dance a prize will be gib away to de lucky winner. De show begins at ten o’clock.” “I’s reckin I’ll hab to trod ’em a few,” Skeeter sighed. “Got to do somepin to ease up my mind.”