Skeeter slapped his derby hat on his head with such force that it popped like a tambourine in a minstrel show, and stalked angrily out of the room. He moped down the street and sauntered slowly into the Shin Bone restaurant, sighing pitifully and feeling very sorry for himself. A slovenly waitress suppressed a yawn, shuffled across the floor in slipshod shoes, and asked indifferently: “Whut’s yours?” Skeeter waited a moment, hoping that his appearance of personified calamity would impress the woman and she would sympathize with his heart-break, but she looked like she was going to sleep while standing in the middle of the floor so he barked his order: “I’s had so many troubles my appetite is plum’ gone, Pearly. Gimme a plate of gumbo soup, a dozen fried oystyers, a bait of fried catfish, two slices of apple pie an’ a glass of milk, a hunk of watermelon an’ a cup of coffee.” He smoked cigarettes and thought up mean things to say to Figger Bush until the order was filled, then courted suffocation for twenty minutes by eating so rapidly that he did not take the time to breathe. He had reached out for the pie and milk when Shin Bone, the proprietor of the eating-house, came from behind a screen and seated himself at the same table. “’Lo, Shinny,” Skeeter mumbled as he tried to stuff a whole slice of pie in his mouth at one time, and therefore became incapable of coherent speech for the next few minutes. “Hello,” Shin replied, watching Skeeter with interest until the last of the first slice of pie was washed down by the milk. “How’s bizzness?” “’Tain’t so awful bad,” Skeeter replied. “You an’ me is got good trades. Folks comes to yo’ place because dey gits hungry reg’lar, an’ dey comes to me because dey gits thirsty reg’lar. All we got to do is to wait till dey comes.” “I ain’t find dat true now, Skeeter,” Shin said gloomily. “Wid me, bizzness is plum’ rotten.” “How come?” Skeeter asked unconcernedly. “Pol’tics.” Skeeter’s interest revived. His second slice of pie lingered half a foot from his mouth, poised upon his hand. “Dis here Uplift League election has done loss me all de customers I’m got,” Shin mourned. “Dey done boycotted me, an’ tunked my bizzness in de head wid a ax.” “Dey hadn’t oughter done it,” Skeeter exclaimed, working himself into a panic. “How did it come to pass?” “My wife, Whiffle, is de niece of Pap Curtain,” Shin explained. “Pap is runnin’ fer de presidunt of de Liftuppers ag’in Mustard Prophet. All niggers dat favors Mustard is done cut me out.” “But Pap oughter git you some customers,” Skeeter protested. “Pap ain’t got de right follerin’,” Shin sighed. “Niggers dat votes wid Pap is de no-shirt, no-sock outfit, an’ dat kind ain’t got no money to buy vittles. Dey begs deir grub from de cook-ladies in de white folks’ kitchen. Mustard Prophet is got de high-brow, uppity niggers wid him an’ dey’s got de money an’ eats here wid me.”