The crowd saw the fun and went into hysterics. Popsy Spout saw the exhibition and became hysterical also, but for other reasons. He walked forward and pounded the floor with his patriarchal staff and screeched Figger’s name, demanding that he desist at once and go to bed. But four big horns in the Tickfall brass band were blaring as the performers tried in vain to blow out their brains through the mouthpieces, and Popsy’s whining voice was like the note of a cricket in a storm. The old man finally snorted his disgust, expressing his sentiments for the amusement of the few around him who could hear, and tried to push his way out of the crowd. But they were packed densely around him, and in spite of his wishes, Popsy had to stay and see the rewarding of the prizes. Wash Jones stepped out and made the announcement: “Dis am de fust night of de prize dancin’ an’ so I’s bestowin’ de prize on whut I calls de lucky-name dancers. I done wrote de name of eve’y couple on a card an’ put de names in dis sack. I now proceeds to shake ’em up an’ will put my han’ in dis sack an’ draw out one card. Ever who’s name is writ on de card is de winner of dis dance, no matter ef dey kin dance or not. To-morrer night we will hab reg’lar app’inted judges an’ nobody cain’t win dat cain’t dance.” He thrust his hand into the bag, stirred the cards around for a moment, created suspense by fumbling with the bag and making jocose remarks to entertain the crowd. At last he found the card pinned to the bottom of the bag, took out the pin, and brought forth the names of the winners. “Figger Bush an’ Mrs. Solly Skaggs!” There was a moment of intense silence which made Wash Jones wince with fear. Then a howl of derisive laughter swept over the crowd and every dancing couple was completely satisfied. All thought that mere chance had determined the selection, and all knew that Solly and Figger were the worst dancers in the world. The lucky couple advanced and received the prizes, bowed to the derisive crowd and started to retire. Then Popsy Spout advanced to the center of the dancing-floor, waving his big staff like a baseball bat, his high, shrill, whining voice cutting the silence like a knife. “Figger Bush, you is a wuthless, lyin’, deceitful cuss! I done advised you to abandon dancin’ an’ you promised to do it. I tole you to go home an’ go to bed, an’ now you done put on yo’ clothes an’ snuck outen yo’ cabin an’ come down here to dis sinful dance. You git on home an’ when I comes I’s gwine hide you wid dis stick!” “Don’t make no scenery, Popsy,” Figger pleaded. “I didn’t really intend to dance but dis here woman betrayed me into treadin’ a tune or two wid her an’ I couldn’t resist.” “You means dat you wus tempted by dis here woman?” Popsy whined. “Dat’s whut,” Figger replied solemnly. “You go home an’ repent an’ refawm!” Popsy shrieked. “Do it befo’ de good Lawd draps a brickbat on yo’ head outen de sky! Git!”