“I makes you one promise fer dis twenty, Skeeter,” Wash said. “Pap won’t start no saloon in Tickfall. As fer marryin’ de widder, I cain’t promise dat he won’t. Not even Gawd knows whut kind of man a widder is gwine to marry.” V AN UNFORESEEN COMPETITOR The one negro in Tickfall who never dressed up was Pap Curtain. He was the well-digger and the grave-digger of that community, and he carried the marks of his trade upon him, clay on his clothes, on his hands, on his hat. But to-night for the first time in the memory of men, Pap was arrayed in gorgeous garments. He attracted much attention. “Whoo-pee, Pap!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “I cain’t make up my mind whether you is a young nigger beginnin’ to show yo’ age, or a ole nigger tryin’ to look lesser dan yo’ real age.” “I done heerd remarks like dat a plum’ plenty, Revun,” Pap snarled. “I admits dat I’s gwine on seventy odd year ole.” “I didn’t say you wusn’t, brudder,” Vinegar said propitiatingly. “But whut do an ole nigger like you dress up like you fer? Dar ain’t no fun’ral to go to an’ us ain’t habin’ no lodge meetin’ to-night.” “Dey’s yuther reasons fer dressin’ up,” Pap said with a grin. Vinegar slapped his hand to his head and a sudden remembrance transformed his countenance. “I like to fergot dat weddin’ complete! I onderstan’ now—you’s ragged out fer de weddin’. I muss be gittin’ ole an’ fergitful. An’ I got some questions to ax dat widder befo’ she steps off.” Vinegar hurried away and Pap stood grinning after him. When the colored clergyman was lost to sight in the crowd, Pap turned away, mumbling to himself: “Dat Vinegar Atts never did hab no sense. Now he raves an’ rambles when he talks wid his mouth. De Shoofly needs a new up-to-date preacher.” Pap walked over to the tabernacle, sought out Mrs. Solly Skaggs, and bowing with exaggerated courtesy, he asked: “Kin I dance dis here prize-dance wid you, Sister Solly?” A shrill cackle of laughter rattled in Pap’s ear and he turned to look into the sardonic face of Skeeter Butts. “I done saved you, Sister Solly,” Skeeter snickered. “You done got left, Pap,” Solly remarked. “I’s dancin’ fer de prize wid Figger Bush.” “You’s gwine to win de prize, too, Solly,” Skeeter said in a low tone. “Dat is, ef you dances wid Figger. You cain’t git a showin’ dancin’ wid Pap. Ole age an’ fatness makes a powerful poor combine in a dance.” “We ain’t axin’ you fer no remarks,” Pap snarled, turning to Skeeter. “Beg parding fer buttin’ in, Pap,” Skeeter laughed. “I wus jes’ surprised dat you wus takin’ up dancin’ at yo’ age.” Skeeter turned away, and as Pap had failed to secure a partner, there was nothing for him to do but retire from the floor, lamenting the fact that he had paid a dime for the privilege of dancing and lost his money. He sat down on a bench on the edge of the throng and gave himself up to deep meditation.