“Ole fellers like you oughter be in bed, Isaiah,” Skeeter announced as he waved the visitor to a chair. “Fellers nearly as ole as me is not only stayin’ up late but dey is figgerin’ ’bout gittin’ married,” Isaiah replied with a grin. “Pap Curtain ain’t nigh as old as you,” Figger retorted. “’Tain’t Pap I’s alludin’ to,” Isaiah answered. “It’s brudder Popsy Spout whut’s studyin’ mattermony.” Many things had happened to those two young men in their variegated and adventurous careers, but nothing had ever happened to produce such a shock as Isaiah’s announcement. Figger uttered a startled exclamation, started to rise from his seat, then sank back with his chin in his collar and collapsed like a punctured tire. Skeeter Butts pawed the air in front of his face with both hands as if fighting off invisible insects; he made inarticulate noises in his throat, shut his teeth down so hard on his celluloid nickel-plated cigarette holder that he split it for two inches, and then exclaimed despairingly: “Oh, whoosh!” The sound was like the feeble exhaust of an automobile that is utterly worn out and broken down and never intends to be serviceable again. “I come aroun’ to ax you-alls is Popsy still got dat thousan’ dollars in Marse Tom Gaitskill’s bank,” Isaiah proceeded, taking no notice of the terrible effect of his announcement. “Whoosh!” Skeeter sighed again. “I got a notion dat Popsy’s suttinly still got it,” Isaiah continued. “Dat ole monkey don’t spen’ no money—he saves it.” “Whoosh!” Skeeter muttered. There was a long silence, the men looking at each other without a word. After a while Isaiah began to drum on the table with his horny fingernails, and the sound was as annoying and as startling in the stillness as the _rat-a-tat-tat_ of a woodpecker trying to drill a hole through a tin roof. Slowly Figger recovered his power of speech. He glared at Skeeter uttering one intelligible sentence: “You is to blame fer dis!” And then he began to “cuss.” It was an edifying exhibition to one interested in the use of forcible words, interested in the efficiency attained through long practice and experience, and interested in knowing how copious is the English language in terms of profanity, blasphemy, and execration. Isaiah listened, casting a glance of admiration toward Figger now and then as he heard some especially pregnant phrases of vituperation, then he said: “Save a few cuss-words fer future use, Figger. You’ll need ’em.” “Keep on, Figger,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Dis here is a cussin’ case an’ you ain’t done de case justice even yit.” “I ain’t gwine stay here an’ listen,” Isaiah snapped. “I jes’ stopped by to ax about Popsy’s finances. Ef he’s still got de dough he had when he arrived up at dis town, he’s got twicet as much as de gal he’s studin’ to marry an’ dat’ll make a good match.” “Hol’ on, Isaiah,” Figger wailed. “Who did you say Popsy wus aimin’ to marry?”