“I got lef’ dat time,” he grumbled to himself. “But dis am jes’ de fust day of de frolic. I got plenty time yit. Fur as I know, I’s de only man aimin’ fer her, an’ de only onmarried man in de town.” He lighted a pipe and sat smoking for five minutes. Then a new idea came: “Wash Jones is de high boss of dis show, an’ I reckin Wash knows de widder. I oughter git Wash to he’p me hook her.” At this point Popsy Spout wandered up to the bench and addressed Pap. “I done loss my way in dese groun’s Pap,” he complained. “Dar’s so many wagins an’ buggies an’ niggers dat I can’t find de cabin whar I sleeps at.” “You ain’t aimin’ to sleep now, is you?” Pap asked. “I goes to bed reg’lar ’bout dis time.” “Eve’ybody is stayin’ up to see de dance,” Pap said. “I’s ag’in dancin’,” Popsy declared, with disgust in his tones. “Me an’ none of my kinnery follers atter de sinful dance. I done teached ’em better.” “Teached who better?” Pap asked quickly, planning for revenge. “Figger an’ Scootie,” Popsy declared. “Bofe of dem young folks abstains from de dance.” “Who say dey does?” “I says,” Popsy replied impatiently. “Whut would you do ef you wuster see Figger dancin’ to-night, Popsy?” Pap asked in wheedling tones. “I’d bust his head wid my stick an’ I wouldn’t let him inherit none of my dollars, an’ I’d drive him an’ his nigger wife outen my cabin,” the old man announced irately. “I’s kinder skeart Figger is a deceitful nigger, Popsy,” Pap said in a bitter voice. “I happens to know dat he is gwine dance in de prize-dance to-night.” “’Tain’t so,” Popsy snapped. “I done tole Figger to go to bed.” The music started in the pavilion and Pap rose to his feet. “Come wid me, Popsy,” Pap said. “I’ll show you dat Figger ain’t as good as you thinks he is.” On the edge of the crowd Popsy shaded his age-dimmed eyes with the palm of his hand and watched the swaying forms until he recognized Figger Bush. Figger’s dancing partner was the easiest thing to see on the floor, but Figger was completely eclipsed at intervals in the convolutions of the dance. If Mrs. Solly Skagg had been white, she would long ago have been signed up by some enterprising showman and her monstrosities exhibited to every community in the country. But being of color, she furnished a free show to all the colored people in her vicinity, and to-night Figger Bush looked like a pickaninny swinging on to a balloon and trying to drag it to the ground. Mrs. Skaggs was active, not graceful, and most of the time Figger’s feet were in the air and he was swinging onto the ample form of his partner with both hands.