mrs. solly skaggs was a widow of the sod variety and had enjoyed her matrimonial release for about six months. she had not mourned too much for solly nor had she loved him much. for he was about as lovable as a sick dog and his departure from the world was a distinct blessing to all the inhabitants thereof.
old isaiah gaitskill, in discussing her chances for matrimony again, assured her that no negro would marry her because she was too fat. but this did not discourage the lady and there was no indication of despair either in her manner or her deportment, for she dressed and acted like a miss of sweet sixteen.
old popsy spout stood on the edge of the throng and watched her elephantine performances on the dancing-floor. growing weary, he walked over and sat down upon a bench beside pap curtain.
“look at dat fool nigger gal, pap,” he whined. “i been livin’ off and on nigh onto one hundred year an’ i done seen plenty sights, but dat fat fool flounderin’ on dat floor is de wust sight till yit.”
“don’t preach so loud, popsy,” pap said with a warning hiss. “you mought hurt dat cullud lady’s feelin’s.”
“i ain’t preachin’,” popsy snapped. “i’s tellin’ facks. excusin’ dat, she ain’t got no feelin’s. her feelin’s is padded two-foot deep in fat. i bet she’s got some age on her, too.”
“not too much age fer a widder,” pap said. “an’ she’s wuth consid’able money since her fust husbunt up an’ died on her. five hundred dollars will keep dat woman fat fer a long time.”
“why don’t you git in de race, pap?” popsy suggested. “you ain’t got no wife now.”
“dat’s my bizzness right now,” pap grinned. “i needs a little cash money to start a saloon.”
“you ain’t figgerin’ to buy out figger an’ skeeter in de hen-scratch, is you?” popsy asked.
“naw, suh, i’s fixin’ to run ’em out,” pap said confidently, as he arose and walked away.
popsy arose, too, pushed his way through the crowd and went in search of figger bush. he found figger and his wife and skeeter butts in the shin bone eating-house. he hastened to their table, rested his rusty stove-pipe hat upon the top of the table and sat down.
“how come you an’ skeeter is bofe lef’ yo’ bizzness to come out here, figger?” he inquired.
“dar ain’t no bizzness wid dis frolic gwine on,” figger said.
“you better git to wuckin’ up some new bizzness,” the old man remarked. “pap curtain is jes’ tole me he wus gwine run you-alls out.”
“we been talkin’ about dat,” skeeter broke in.
“pap’s tryin’ to pick a widder an’ us is wonderin’ how we kin bump him off de job.”
“i’s gittin’ to be a awful ole fool,” popsy sighed. “i jes’ dis minute suggested to pap dat he ought to marry dat widder an’ git her out of her misery an’ her mournin’.”
“whut you mean by doin’ dat, popsy?” skeeter snapped. “you done ruint us. i’s thinkin’ about firin’ figger now because our bizzness is got so bum wid prohibition an’ all dem yuther troubles.”
“mebbe i could go back an’ tell pap he is makin’ a miscue at his age,” popsy proposed.
“you better go do somepin,” skeeter snapped. “you go potterin’ aroun’ an’ spile my trade an’ i’ll kick figger out an’ you’ll hab dis here wuthless nigger to suppote.”
“not ef i kin he’p it,” popsy said positively. “i’ll shore git busy an’ c’reck dat mistake. i needs my dollars fer my own use. i’s fixin’ to spend ’em in my ole age, when i gits ole.”
at this moment wash jones stepped to the middle of the floor, pulled proudly at one of his squirrel-tail mustaches, knocked upon a dining-table with the nicked edge of a thick, granite saucer, and commanded silence.
“i announces dar will be a prize-dance at de tabernacle to-night. it will be de last dance of de evenin’. five cents lets you into de tabernacle to perceive de dancers, ten cents will gib you de right to dance. at de end of de last dance a prize will be gib away to de lucky winner. de show begins at ten o’clock.”
“i’s reckin i’ll hab to trod ’em a few,” skeeter sighed. “got to do somepin to ease up my mind.”
“i don’t allow scootie an’ figger to dance,” popsy snapped. “’tain’t decent an’ religium to cut monkey-shines like dat at a camp-meetin’. married folks oughter sottle down an’ behave.”
“i agree wid you,” skeeter grinned, winking at figger bush. “bofe of ’em is gittin’ too ole an’ stiff to dance an’ figger never wus no account dancer nohow. as fer scootie, she dances like one dese here teddy bears.”
“’tain’t so,” scootie snapped. “you gimme a couple dances wid you to-night an’ i’ll show you—ouch!”
figger kicked scootie under the table and pounded on the top of the table with his fist to drown her voice, looking fearfully the while at popsy spout to see if he was listening to her remarks.
“shut up!” he hissed. “whut you want to be such a splatter-jaw fer? watch whut you’s sayin’!”
scootie cast a frightened look at popsy, but the old man showed by his next question that he had not noticed her break.
“whut kind prizes does dey gib fer de dance, skeeter?”
“nobody ain’t know but wash jones,” skeeter informed him. “dis is de fust night of de show an’ no prizes ain’t git bestowed yit.”
“’twon’t be nothin’ but a pack of chawgum fer de lady an’ a box of cigareets fer de man,” figger said disgustedly. “wash jones ain’t gwine gib nothin’ away. i think i’ll cut out de dance an’ go to bed.”
“me, too,” popsy whined. “i got a little bed out here in one of dese shacks ef i could find it.”
“it’s down by de lake, popsy,” figger told him, glad that popsy was leaving them. “you won’t hab no trouble gittin’ dar.”
as soon as popsy had departed, scootie turned to figger and snapped:
“you mighty nigh kicked my leg off an’ ole popsy didn’t pay no mind to whut i wus sayin’ at all.”
“stop talkin’ ’bout dancin’ whar popsy is,” figger growled. “dat ole man will git mad an’ gib all his money to furin missionaries when he dies.”
“you’s makin’ yo’se’f tired fer nothin’, figger,” skeeter giggled. “popsy will find out about yo’ dancin’ powerful soon.”
“how soon?” figger asked.
“as soon as you an’ sister skaggs wins dem prizes to-night.”
“i ain’t gwine win no prize. dar cain’t be no prize-dancin’ wid dat fat ole cow. de judges would laugh at us.”
“i’ll fix de judges,” skeeter laughed. “leave it wid me an’ wash jones.”
“you ain’t fixin’ to buy up de judges, is you?” figger asked.
“naw. i’s fixin’ to buy wash jones. ’twon’t cost much. wash is a cheap nigger.”
