“I don’t allow Scootie an’ Figger to dance,” Popsy snapped. “’Tain’t decent an’ religium to cut monkey-shines like dat at a camp-meetin’. Married folks oughter sottle down an’ behave.” “I agree wid you,” Skeeter grinned, winking at Figger Bush. “Bofe of ’em is gittin’ too ole an’ stiff to dance an’ Figger never wus no account dancer nohow. As fer Scootie, she dances like one dese here Teddy bears.” “’Tain’t so,” Scootie snapped. “You gimme a couple dances wid you to-night an’ I’ll show you—_ouch_!” Figger kicked Scootie under the table and pounded on the top of the table with his fist to drown her voice, looking fearfully the while at Popsy Spout to see if he was listening to her remarks. “Shut up!” he hissed. “Whut you want to be such a splatter-jaw fer? Watch whut you’s sayin’!” Scootie cast a frightened look at Popsy, but the old man showed by his next question that he had not noticed her break. “Whut kind prizes does dey gib fer de dance, Skeeter?” “Nobody ain’t know but Wash Jones,” Skeeter informed him. “Dis is de fust night of de show an’ no prizes ain’t git bestowed yit.” “’Twon’t be nothin’ but a pack of chawgum fer de lady an’ a box of cigareets fer de man,” Figger said disgustedly. “Wash Jones ain’t gwine gib nothin’ away. I think I’ll cut out de dance an’ go to bed.” “Me, too,” Popsy whined. “I got a little bed out here in one of dese shacks ef I could find it.” “It’s down by de lake, Popsy,” Figger told him, glad that Popsy was leaving them. “You won’t hab no trouble gittin’ dar.” As soon as Popsy had departed, Scootie turned to Figger and snapped: “You mighty nigh kicked my leg off an’ ole Popsy didn’t pay no mind to whut I wus sayin’ at all.” “Stop talkin’ ’bout dancin’ whar Popsy is,” Figger growled. “Dat ole man will git mad an’ gib all his money to furin missionaries when he dies.” “You’s makin’ yo’se’f tired fer nothin’, Figger,” Skeeter giggled. “Popsy will find out about yo’ dancin’ powerful soon.” “How soon?” Figger asked. “As soon as you an’ Sister Skaggs wins dem prizes to-night.” “I ain’t gwine win no prize. Dar cain’t be no prize-dancin’ wid dat fat ole cow. De judges would laugh at us.” “I’ll fix de judges,” Skeeter laughed. “Leave it wid me an’ Wash Jones.” “You ain’t fixin’ to buy up de judges, is you?” Figger asked. “Naw. I’s fixin’ to buy Wash Jones. ’Twon’t cost much. Wash is a cheap nigger.” IV THE JOYOUS TROUBLE-MAKERS Wash Jones was standing behind the tabernacle, mopping the copious perspiration that streamed from his baboon face. “I finds dis here bizzness a heap more wuck dan I bargained fer,” he complained to Skeeter Butts. “When I fust started out I thought dat niggers would jes’ entertain deyselfs an’ not expeck nothin’ from me but de pleasure of my comp’ny. But I finds dat dey expecks me to be on de job of waitin’ on ’em all de time.”