I “Dis here nigger Uplift League is shore gittin’ active, Figger,” Skeeter Butts remarked one morning as he entered the Hen-Scratch saloon and seated himself at a table beside his partner. Figger Bush sat with his knife-blade poised over the top of the pine table, trying to devise some new design to carve upon that piece of furniture. He showed his lack of interest in the league by replying: “Dem Uplifters ain’t gwine lift me up. I’s a heavy-weight.” “You always wus a sinker,” Skeeter smiled, as he watched Figger sketch the outline of an Indian face in the soft pine with his knife-point before beginning to carve. “You jes’ nachelly went down ever since I knowed you.” “Dese Uplifters is uppity, biggity, high-brow niggers. Dey’s always jawin’ about high cullud sawciety, an’ who b’longs an’ who ain’t b’long. Dey ain’t black folks; dey’s play-like whites.” “Dey’s actin’ an’ playin’ like niggers now,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey’s in a awful row ’bout who’s gwine be elected to de high-up offices of de Uplift. I never seed de beat of de politickin’ dey’s doin’.” “Nobody ain’t politicked me yit,” Figger murmured, as his knife slowly moved through the soft pine. “I reckin votes ain’t fetchin’ so awful high price.” “Dem Uplifters is gwine uplift de price befo’ de election is over,” Skeeter told him. “Ef I had a real loud voice an’ could holler an’ bawl an’ whoop, I’d run fer presidunt of de league myself.” “You jes’ fergit dem notions off yo’ mind,” Figger growled. “I ain’t aimin’ to keep dis saloon an’ do all de odd jobs while you yelps aroun’ like a kicked dawg about whut oughter be done fer de poor, oppressed cullud race.” “But de Uplifters is done fergot de po’, oppressed cullud niggers an’ is thinkin’ up cuss names to call each yuther wid,” Skeeter explained. “Some Uplifters ain’t in favor of de way de yuther uplifts is liftin’, an’ dey’s tryin’ to git good riddunce of Mustard Prophet an’ put Pap Curtain in his place as presidunt.” “Pap Curtain is a slick-head nigger,” Figger growled. “He’s heap mo’ crookeder dan a dawg’s hind leg. Nobody cain’t never git Pap straight.” “Dat’s de kind of man to git elected,” Skeeter snickered. “It’ll take a slick-head to beat Mustard.” “You real shore dey ain’t gwine run you fer presidunt?” Figger asked suspiciously. “Dey ain’t got no notion of dat kind,” Skeeter replied. “Dey don’t see me at all. Dis here is gwine be a real election an’ it takes a loud speecher to git votes. My voice is too squeaky an’ my size is ag’in’ me. A little runt like me wid a screech-owl voice couldn’t git elected as free-meat man in a dawg town.” “I’s glad you’s so modest, Skeeter,” his friend grinned. “My idear is dat dis saloon is gwine be de chiefest headquarters of bofe sides of de Uplifters. We’ll rake in a heap of dollars by bein’ puffeckly neuter in dis race. Ef we takes sides, we loses money.”