Scootie’s hot cakes got cold; Figger never did come home to eat them. Skeeter Butts tended bar alone until sundown before he saw his partner again. When Figger entered, Skeeter howled: “Looky here, you done been gone long enough to go to a fun’ral an’ mourn de loss of yo’ best frien’. Did dem hot cakes knock you out?” “Ain’t had none,” Figger answered, glancing up in surprise at the sudden recollection of his lost dinner. “Fergot all about ’em.” “Whut ails you? Whar you been at? De fust notion you know, you’ll git fired!” “Ef I gits elected, I don’t keer ef——” “Ef you git—whut?” Skeeter interrupted, his eyes bulging with astonishment, which rapidly changed to anger and disgust. “Pap Curtain is candidated me to run fer vice-presidunt wid him,” Figger explained. “Ef Pap dies or gits in jail, I gits to be plum’ presidunt. De chances is pretty good. Pap digs wells fer a livin’ an’ he’s got plenty good chances to git blowed wid dynamite.” “Positively not!” Skeeter howled. “Dynamite might blow up whar Pap wus, but ’tain’t never been quick enough to blow up whar Pap is.” “Anyhow, Pap’s a snoopy, slick-head nigger, an’ he’s got a good chance to git in jail,” Figger continued. “Listen to yo’ fool talk!” Skeeter ranted. “Slick-heads don’t never git in jail. Dey chooses ’em a pardner or a vice-presidunt, an’ it’s dat mud-head dat gits in jail.” “Anyways, I’ll shore be presidunt some of de time, because when de gram jury meets, Pap always gits de trabbel-itch an’ leaves town,” Figger rambled on. Overcome by an assortment of emotions, Skeeter Butts placed his feet on the table and let himself down in his chair until he was sitting on his shoulder-blades. He fanned himself with his derby hat and glared at Figger fairly speechless with wrath. “Of co’se, I mought not git elected, but me ’n’ Pap will gib ’em a good race——” “You bet you ain’t gwine be elected,” Skeeter shrieked. “You ain’t gwine be allowed to run! You’s de wuss loontick I ever did see.” “I ain’t no loontick,” Figger retorted. “De last words you said to me befo’ I lef’ fer dinner—an’ I shore regrets dat I loss dat dinner by deprivity—you said you hoped Pap would git elected. Now I ups an’ offers to he’p Pap an’ you go poppin’ off——” “Stop talkin’ to me about Pap Curtain,” Skeeter shouted. “Dat ole brayin’ jackace is jes’ makin’ a noise to git hisself heard. He won’t lose nothin’ ef he gits beat, but ef you runs wid Pap, us is gwine to lose half dis saloon bizzness because de yuther side won’t paternize us none.” Figger gasped for breath. “I fergot that arrangement entirely, Skeeter,” he exclaimed. “Us wus gwine keep out of it. But dat won’t be so awful bad. Pap an’ me an’ our crowd will suppote de Hen-Scratch.” “I’s sorry you done mint us, Figger,” Skeeter said sadly as he arose to go out for his evening meal. “But I freely admits dat you wus a fool an’ didn’t know no better.” III