head lowered as if about to butt--giving a ludicrous imitation of an
angry bull getting ready to make a charge. He walked over to where
Tucky Chew Sipe was sitting, and shook an impressive finger before that
gentleman’s long nose:
“I gib you fair warnin’ right now, Tucky Chew Sipe, dat de very fust
sermont whut you preaches in dis church will be yo’ last--I’ll walk up
to de side of dis church and put my hands agin de outside wall, an’
move dis whole house plum over to de State of Arkansas!”
Vinegar turned, shut the door of exit from the building, locked it and
put the key in his pocket. Then he sat down beside the table and spread
his hands palm-downward on the top.
He seemed to sink into a trance, his eyes rolled back, his alligator
mouth came open, his breath came and went with a loud wheeze, and at
intervals a low moan issued from his throat.
The minutes passed. The men watched Vinegar with ever-increasing
horror. Tucky Chew Sipe stood up and flattened himself against the
wall, his knees shaking until they threatened any moment to collapse
and let him down in a heap upon the floor.
Vinegar moaned. A long, deep sigh whistled through the tense silence,
and the table rose two feet from the floor, teetering uncertainly.
Vinegar rose to his feet, and followed the table in its peregrinations
around the room, his hands spread wide and resting upon the top.
“My Gawd!” Tucky Sipe exclaimed.
Instantly the table went high into the air and shot out toward Tucky
Sipe, crashing against the wall, striking Tucky a mighty blow in his
lean and hungry stomach, extinguishing the lamp and hurling it to the
floor where it broke into a thousand pieces!
Instantly Vinegar Atts struck a match and held it up to illumine the
darkness.
He glared a moment at the horrified negroes, then walked over to where
the Reverend Tucky Chew Sipe lay flat on the floor in a hysteria of
fear, whooping like a siren in a fog.
“Shut up, brudder, shut up!” Vinegar howled. “You done mourned a
plenty. Trust de Lawd!”
The match went out and Vinegar struck another.
“Now, honey,” Vinegar said to the frightened Sipe, “ef you wants dis
church, you kin hab it--but my advices to you is to hunt somewhar fer
to git, an’ trabbel out to’des dat place right now!”
“Yes, suh,” Tucky Chew Sipe said in a voice which strangled in his
throat. “I takes yo’ advices. I’s like dat ole Bill Shazzer in de
Bible--I done observe de handwrite on de wall!”
The burning match scorched Vinegar’s fingers and he tossed it aside,
sucking the blister as he unlocked and opened the door. Then he spoke
in the darkness:
“De log-train passes through Tickfall in about ten minutes, brudder.
Skeeter Butts will go to de deppo wid you an’ speed you on yo’ way. You
won’t make me mad ef you never comes back!”
* * * * *
One hour later Vinegar Atts and Skeeter Butts met in the rear room of
the Hen-Scratch saloon.
“De revun made his git-off, Elder,” Skeeter grinned. “He specify dat
he reternally regretted dat he wouldn’t git no more free vittles from
de dearly beloved sisteren, but he ’peared powerful anxious to trabel
jes’ de same.”
“Well, I reckin ef dar ain’t no likely cand’date fer my preachin’ job,
de cormittee will let me hold on to it, won’t dey?” Vinegar asked.
“Suttinly,” Skeeter grinned. “Dey say you is done bewitched dat church
an’ dey is gwine let you keep it till you die.”
“Dat’s de bes’ news I’s heerd sence de las’ pay day,” Vinegar exulted.
“I shore do like to bawl de message in dat communion. It he’ps me git a
lot of wind offen my breast.”
Vinegar took out a soiled handkerchief and mopped the copious sweat
from his beaming face.
“Lawd,” he sighed in delighted tones. “Ain’t it hot!”
“Lay off dat long-tail prancin’-albert coat, Revun,” Skeeter said
irritably. “You oughter run yo’se’f through a wringer befo’ you wear
dem clothes--dey makes you too moistuous--you’s spoutin’ water like a
whale right now!”
Vinegar sprang up gladly and pulled off his coat.
Then he glanced at his wrists in shocked surprise, and began to put on
his coat again with all possible haste.
But sharp-eyed Skeeter Butts was too quick for him. He sprang up,
seized the coat, and wrenched it away.
“Hol’ on, Vinegar!” he barked. “Whut you doin’ wid all dat harness on
yo’ wrists?”
Vinegar pulled back his big white cuffs and sheepishly displayed the
“harness.”
Around each wrist a large leather strap was securely bound, and from
each strap, projecting toward Vinegar’s fingers was a powerful iron
hook with a sharp point!
“Whut in de name of mud is dat fer?” Skeeter howled.
Vinegar grinned, sat down at a little pine table in the middle of the
room, spread his open hands upon the table, palms downward, just as he
had done at the Shoofly church.
The two iron hooks fitted securely under the edge of the table, and
were effectually concealed by his white cuffs. With the grip and the
leverage thus secured, the gorilla arms and iron wrists of Vinegar Atts
could have lifted a bale of cotton.
Vinegar quietly picked up the little table and grinning like a big fat
monkey, pranced all around the room before the astounded, admiring eyes
of Skeeter Butts.
Skeeter sat down and chuckled with delight.
“Vinegar,” he said, “I always figgered dat a preacher wus a nachel-bawn
fool or he wouldn’t be a preacher. But atter dis I is gwine hand a tin
prize to you fer brains!”
Vinegar could see no particular advantage in confessing that Colonel
Tom Gaitskill and Captain Lemuel Manse had spent the entire morning of
that day manufacturing Vinegar’s harness, and rehearsing him in the
sensational stunt which he had pulled off at the Shoofly church.
“You won’t make no great big mistake ef you gib me two tin prizes fer
brains,” Vinegar remarked complacently.
Skeeter clawed at his close-cropped head a moment, then asked another
question:
“Elder, how did you make dat tin cup prance all over de top of dat
table?”
Vinegar’s mouth was filled with chewing tobacco and his soul with
peace. He ruminated a minute, grinning at the little barkeeper. When
Skeeter began to show signs of impatience, Vinegar answered:
“I put a tree-frog under dat cup,” he said.
Owner of Doodle-bug
Sugar Sibley, the dusky belle of the Tickfall Parish Fair, sat in the
Jim Crow section of the grand stand, clothed in all the colors of the
rainbow, posing with all the indolence and insolence of an African
princess, lavishing her charms upon the yellow-faced barkeeper of the
Hen-Scratch saloon.
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on next, Skeeter?” she inquired.
“Dunno,” Skeeter answered anxiously. “I hopes it’ll be a winner.”
Skeeter removed his hat and rubbed a nervous hand over a closely
cropped head, down the middle of which a part had been made with a
razor.
His face was seamed with fine lines of worry, and the nervous sweat
pouring down his face had wilted his high, white collar to a soiled and
crumpled rag.
“I don’t like a nigger whut parts his wool in de middle,” Sugar
announced, eyeing Skeeter’s head, with disapproving looks. “Ef a hoss
eats in my trough, his mane is all got to lay on one side.”
Skeeter hastily put on his hat.
The band struck up the lively tune of _Rastus, Why Don’t You Pay de
Rent_?
“Dar now!” Sugar exclaimed. “One dem hosses in dat nex’ race is named
Rastus. You go bet ten dollars on Rastus, Skeeter! An’ fotch me back
some loose change. You ain’t winned me nothin’ dis whole day.”
“I ain’t got but ten bucks lef’ over,” Skeeter confessed. “Ef Rastus
don’t win, I’s shore a busted cornstitution!”
“Whut’s dat?” Sugar demanded sharply. “You mean to signify dat you
ain’t fotch but one hundred dollars out here wid you to entertain a
cullud lady?”
“Dat’s right,” Skeeter declared, “an’ I done loss it all but dis here
tenner.”
“You’s gwine lose a lady frien’, nigger,” Sugar remarked in a disgusted
tone. “Nothin’ don’t talk aroun’ me but dollars.”
“My talkin’ dollars is done expe’unce a vocal breakdown,” Skeeter
answered shamefacedly.
A tall, yellow negro with a furtive manner, a baboon face, eyes too
close together, and lips which carried an habitual sneer, passed them,
walked down to the rail, and stopped to gaze up and down the track.
“Does you know dat man?” Sugar Sibley asked.
“Dat’s Pap Curtain,” Skeeter informed her. “He’s de meanes’ slick-head
nigger in Tickfall.”
Then Skeeter left her, walked down to Pap, and said:
“Pap, is you got any money?”
“Shore!” Pap informed him, patting four capacious pockets bulging with
silver coins.
“Cain’t you loant me a few loose change?” Skeeter pleaded.
“Naw, son,” Pap replied positively. “Whenever I loants money to a
frien’ I axes dat money an’ dat frien’ good-by. I ain’t never gwine see
ary one no mo’.”
“I sho’ am on de list fer he’p,” Skeeter mourned. “I’s armin’ a
she-queen aroun’ an’ she done et up all my money an’ bawlin’ fer mo’
an’ I’s skeart she’ll pass me down because I’s busted.”
“Dat’s too bad,” Pap sympathized. “You had oughter picked de winners.”
“Is you winned all dat money wid bets?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“Naw, suh!” Pap made emphatic answer. “I don’t bet on nothin’. I sells
tips! I charges one half dollar fer eve’y tip per each.”
Skeeter produced his last bill and handed it to Pap.
“Give me nine dollars and fifty cents change. Pap,” he said eagerly,
“an’ a tip on de winner of de nex’ race.”
Pap handed back the change, caught Skeeter by the arm, led him to one
side out of ear-shot of all other negroes, and whispered impressively:
“Swa’r befo’ Gawd dat you won’t tell nobody whar you got dis tip!”
“I prommus!” Skeeter murmured.
Pap bent down, cupped both hands around Skeeter’s ear like a trumpet,
and whispered hoarsely:
“Rastus!”
Skeeter’s little legs bounced him down the steps of the grand stand and
for the next ten minutes he circulated assiduously among the negroes
placing his private bets.
When Skeeter had gone Pap Curtain turned his back to the track and
gazed upward in worshipful adoration of Sugar Sibley as if she were the
saint of his deepest devotion. The gaudy princess opened wide her large
eyes, then squinted them, then slowly closed one eye and smiled.
Pap promptly pranced up the steps and seated himself in the place
vacated by Skeeter Butts. He did not act like a stranger, nor as if he
regarded an introduction necessary.
“Howdy, Sugar?” he remarked. “I argufies dat yo’ name fits you’
corporosity like a candy jaw-breaker fits a pickaninny’s mouf.”
“You ain’t entirely wrong, Popper,” the lady grinned. “I’s shore a
sweet cake to de coon whut’s got de dough to mix wid de sugar.”
“Skeeter Butts jes’ now specify to me dat he’s nearly out of mixin’s,”
Pap muttered, fumbling at his own silver-laden pockets.
“All right, Popper,” Sugar announced complacently. “Me an’ you will let
dat Mr. Muskeeter fly up de creek.”
“Ef he won’t fly away us’ll screen him off,” Pap snickered.
Their conversation was brought to an abrupt close by a loud whoop
from the spectators. Five horses were loping around the track--loping
leisurely in spite of the fact that their frenzied jockeys were using
whip and spur at every jump. But the racing game was new to these
humble plough-horses, and their idea seemed to be that if they reached
the wire before the sun set the day’s work would be done.
But the jockey on Rastus found a tender place on his mount’s
tick-bitten flank and managed to provoke a spurt of speed which put
Rastus two lengths ahead and kept him there. Rastus won!
* * * * *
Flushed with his triumph and rattling his money, Skeeter Butts came to
where Pap and Sugar were seated, tossed five dollars in Sugar’s lap,
and glared at Curtain.
“Git outen my seat, Pap!” he commanded. “You’s tryin’ to deeprive me of
my gal!”
“Naw, suh,” Pap answered promptly. “I ain’t intend no depravity.
Besides, I gotter go. ’Bout fawty niggers wants to cornverse me ’bout
dis nex’ race.”
“Whut hoss we gwine bet on nex’, Skeeter?” Sugar Sibley asked when Pap
had gone.
“I dunno,” Butts replied, promptly regretting that he had not been more
gracious to Pap Curtain. “Which way did Pap went?”
“Whut you want wid dat ole man?” Sugar asked suspiciously.
“Pap is sellin’ tips,” Skeeter explained. “He teched me off ’bout
Rastus winnin’ dat las’ race atter he made me prommus I wouldn’t tell
nobody.”
“I don’t b’lieve it,” Sugar snorted. “I picked Rastus myself when de
band was playin’ dat tune. How do Popper Curtain know whut hoss is
gwine win?”
“I dunno,” Skeeter answered. “He’s a slick-head nigger an’ mebbe he’s
got a conjure.”
“Ef Popper knowed whut hoss wus gwine win, he wouldn’t sell no tips,”
Sugar sniffed. “He’d bet!”
“Mebbe dat’s so!” Skeeter agreed, his confidence shaken by this
argument. “But ef you’s so good at pickin’ de winner, s’pose you name
de nex’ one?”
Sugar glanced at a large blackboard under the starter’s stand where a
red-headed boy was chalking the names of three more horses.
“_Doodle-Bug!_” she exclaimed eagerly. “Bet on Doodle, Skeeter!”
Butts walked away, but before he placed a single bet he trailed Pap
Curtain until he found him, placed a half-dollar in Pap’s willing palm,
and demanded the name of the winner.
Again Pap cupped his hands around Skeeter’s ears and whispered:
“Doodle-Bug!”
Skeeter took a big breath. Then he got busy. First he found his friend,
Figger Bush.
“Figger,” he panted, “loant me ten dollars. Ef I never pays it back yo’
credick is good at de Hen-Scratch till you drinks dat much liquor up.”
Figger counted out the money, and Skeeter raced around until he had
borrowed a similar sum from Hitch Diamond, Prince Total, an Mustard
Prophet, thus increasing his supply of money until he had fifty-five
dollars. Then he raced around some more, betting every dollar on
Doodle-Bug.
Walking back to the grand stand, he found Pap Curtain engaged in a
lively conversation with Sugar Sibley. Jealousy boiled in Skeeter’s
heart and his saddle-colored face flushed to a brownish crimson. He
strode to where they were sitting and began:
“Looky here, Pap, you let my nigger gal alone. I don’t want no ole
gray-wool baboon monkeyin’ aroun’ whar I cotes a lady. You hike outen
dis!”
“Set down, son, and watch de race!” Pap responded in a patronizing
tone. “A nigger hadn’t oughter git uppity when he bets his las’ dollar
on Doodle-Bug. Doodle might run in de groun’.”
At that moment Doodle galloped onto the track, and Skeeter postponed
his quarrel to watch the horse which carried his money.
Doodle-Bug was a white-faced Tuckapoo mustang; and the Tuckapoo mustang
is the beast which the Louisiana Indians purposely left behind when
they were forced to migrate to Indian Territory, to wreak vengeance
upon the paleface for depriving them of their patrimonial landholdings.
Besides being able to buck, bite, and kick like other horses, the
Tuckapoo mustang can butt like a goat, break a man’s jaw by switching
his tail, and has the deer’s trick of jumping high in the air and
coming down on top of a man, spearing him to the ground with his four
stiff legs. He has more ways of ridding himself of his rider than a
trick circus mule, and, unlike the circus mule, he is not good-natured
about it.
Doodle-Bug balked in front of the grand stand, and seven men tried to
induce him to go. Four got kicked, one got bit, the jockey was bucked
off, and finally Doodle-Bug laid down on his back, squealing like a
pig, his four legs fanning the air like the legs of an overturned
beetle.
The men backed away from those rapid-firing legs and waited until it
pleased Doodle-Bug to get up.
Thereupon Pap Curtain walked down to the rail motioned the little
jockey to him, and issued instructions:
“Turn dat Doodle-Bug aroun’, Jim, an’ back him up to de startin’-place.
He balks because he figgers you is tryin’ to make him go aroun’ de
track de wrong way. Face him right an’ back him up, an’ when he gits
started, he’ll run like a rabbit!”
Skeeter and Sugar heard this advice, and it restored Skeeter’s hopes in
the horse. Sugar, anticipating a share in Skeeter’s winnings, became
extremely gracious.
“Come an’ set down by me, Skeeter,” she said. “You an’ Popper Curtain
kin set on each side of me an’ I’ll set in de middle. ’Tain’t no use
fer you to be jealousy of dat ole man. He’s ole enough to be my daddy,
an’ I’s jes’ bein’ gentle to him. I’s dead stuck on you!”
Pap Curtain joined them, and the three sat down to watch the race.
Doodle-Bug got a flying start, and did well for a quarter; he was
running second at the half; he took last place at the three-quarters’
post, and came in after all the shouting was over, jeered by a few
children as he loped past the grand stand.
Skeeter Butts crumpled up beside Sugar Sibley, in the saddest of all
the plights which a lover experiences--dead broke!
Pap Curtain got the giggles.
Sugar Sibley pretended not to notice when Skeeter Butts arose and slunk
away.
The racing was over for the day, and Sugar Sibley rode back to Tickfall
in Pap Curtain’s hired buggy.
“Pa Curtain is done played a buzzo on me, an’ I wants revengeance,”
Skeeter Butts soliloquized bitterly, as he sat behind the bar of the
Hen-Scratch saloon.
The swinging doors were thrust open, and Hitch Diamond, Mustard
Prophet, Prince Total, and Figger Bush entered the room.
“We wants our money back, Skeeter,” they announced in a chorus.
“Yo’ credick is good fer ten dollars per each, niggers,” Butts said
with a sickly grin. “I bet on Doodle-Bug an’ Doodle didn’t do.”
There was a whoop from the four negroes, then each handed Skeeter
certain derogatory remarks calculated to reduce his self-esteem to the
minimum.
“Pap Curtain tipped me off on Doodle,” Skeeter said defensively. “I
don’t know nothin’ ’bout pickin’ em.”
There was a moment of surprised silence; then Hitch asked:
“Did you pay him for de tip, Skeeter?”
“Suttinly. He charged me fo’ bits.”
“Dat sho’ is curious,” Hitch said in a perplexed tone. “Now Pap gib me
a tip on dat race an’ he said Dixie would win.”
“Dat’s whut he tole us,” Mustard and Figger chimed in.
“I don’t kotch on to dat,” Prince Total declared. “Pap sold me a tip on
dat same race, an’ he said Rooster would win.”
“Huh,” Skeeter Butts grunted, “dat shows whut a slick-head nigger
Pap is. He wucks it dis way--he tole twenty niggers dat Doodle-Bug
would win; den he tole twenty mo’ niggers dat Dixie would win; den he
tole twenty yuther niggers dat Rooster would win--an’ dar warn’t but
three hosses in de race. Of co’se he picked a winner fer twenty of dem
niggers, an’ he picked a near winner fer twenty mo’, an’ he tuck up
cont’ibutions of fifty cents from sixty niggers, an’ fawty of ’em come
back to git anodder tip!”
“My Lawd!” the quartet mourned in righteous indignation. “Pap hadn’t
oughter did us dataway!”
“Dat’s all right,” Skeeter said consolingly. “We gits one mo’ day of
racin’ to-morrer, an’ I’s doin’ some heavy thinkin’. When I gits my
plan all ready, ef you niggers will he’p, we’ll git Pap Curtain an’
’vide him up--hoofs, hide, horns, an’ taller!”
“We’s wid you, Skeeter!” they shouted. “You kin sottle you’ owe-bills
wid us when we ’vides up Pap’s pickin’s.”
The men tramped out of the saloon, and ten minutes later the door swung
open again, admitting Pap Curtain.
“De good Lawd is sho’ heerd my prayer,” Skeeter murmured thankfully as
he rose to his feet.
Pap came straight to the bar, laid down a five-cent piece, and remarked:
“Gimme a big beer, Skeeter.”
Skeeter set the drink upon the bar, then, under pretense of wiping the
bar with his rag, flicked the coin so that it fell on the floor at
Pap’s feet.
When Pap stooped to pick it up, Skeeter quietly emptied the odorless
contents of a tiny vial into the glass.
“Put de nickel back in yo’ pocket, Pap,” Skeeter said pleasantly when
Pap tendered it again. “It’s my treat. Less sot down at de table an’
cornverse awhile.”
The two sat down, sipped their drinks for a moment, then Skeeter
remarked:
“Dat wus mighty bum racin’ we had to-day.”
“Shore wus,” Pap agreed. “Dar ain’t never no real racehosses at dis
fair. Ef a feller’s got a hoss whut kin run a little, he picks the
cockle-burs outen his tail, fotches him to town, and enters him in de
race.”
“You come out powerful good, Pap,” the barkeeper said admiringly. “You
muss ’a’ made a whole passel of money.”
“Yes, suh, I done it,” Pap assured him, draining his glass of liquor as
he talked. “I didn’t bet none. I jes’ sold tips. But I shore had bad
luck wid dat money at de las’.”
“Whut happened?” Skeeter inquired with great interest.
“You remember dat Sugar Sibley you wus wid? Well, suh, dat gal jes’
nachelly hoodooed me outen eve’y dollar I had on me, excusin’ dis one
poor, lonesome nickel. She said she wus skeart I would git in bad
comp’ny an’ lose it!”
“My Gawd, Pap!” Skeeter exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Whyn’t you
tell me dat terr’ble news sooner?”
Pap did not answer. His head fell forward on his chest; his hands hung
limply at his sides; he breathed stertorously, with his mouth open.
Skeeter ransacked Curtain’s pockets.
They still sagged from the weight of the coins they had contained, but
now--they assayed only one five-cent piece!
* * * * *
Hitch Diamond, admitted into the Hen-Scratch saloon through the rear
door early the next morning, was horrified to see the unconscious form
of Pap Curtain lying on a pallet in the corner of the room.
“Whut’s come to pass wid Pap?” he inquired.
“Knock-out draps,” Skeeter answered disgustedly.
“When you gwine ’vide up de money?” Hitch grinned.
“Ax Sugar Sibley,” Skeeter responded. “She beat me to Pap’s pockets,
an’ never lef’ me nothin’ but a buff’lo jitney.”
“Whar is dat Sugar Sibley?” Hitch asked earnestly.
“Dat’s whut yo’ job is right now--find dat nigger woman!”
“Whut’ll I do when I gits her?”
“Cote her servigerous!” Skeeter informed him. “Find out whar she keeps
dat money. Ax her whut’s she gwine do wit it!”
“Dat looks like a dangersome woman to me,” Hitch remarked uneasily.
“Whar do she come from, Skeeter?”
“Gawd knows!” the barkeeper answered. “I’s heerd her say somepin ’bout
Baton Rouge. Mebbe she stays dar. She made google eyes at me in de
grand stan’ an’ I tuck up wid her.”
“I’ll go out and make inquirements an’ see whut I kin do,” Hitch said.
“When you find out somepin, come back an’ repote.”
Two hours later a buggy stopped in front of the Hen-Scratch saloon and
Sugar Sibley leaned out like a drowsy stage-queen, and languidly called
for Skeeter Butts.
“’Mawnin’, honey,” she said graciously. “Is you gwine out to de fair
to-day?”
“Suttingly,” he told her. “Dis here is Nigger Day.”
Sugar leaned over and whispered:
“Is you saw Popper Curtain dis mawnin’?”
“Naw,” Skeeter lied glibly.
The woman hesitated a moment as if debating her next move. Then she
said:
“Skeeter, dat little brown hand-satchel at my foots is full of money.
I wants you to keep dat coin fer me until atter dinner an’ den fotch
it out to de races. I’s gwine bet big money on dem races to-day an’ I
wants you to do my runnin’ fer me. I wus gwine ax Popper Curtain to do
it, but he’s done made hisse’f absent.”
Skeeter lifted the satchel out of the buggy with an eager hand.
“Don’t say nothin’ to nobody, honey!” Sugar cautioned with a smile as
she drove away.
Skeeter sat down behind the bar with the satchel of money between his
feet and tried to think. This last incident had nearly unsettled his
reason.
After a long period of meditation he arose and tiptoed into the
room where Pap Curtain lay and examined the prostrate man long and
attentively. He shook him by the shoulder--not too hard. He kicked
him--gently. Then he remarked with great satisfaction:
“He won’t wake up till mighty nigh dark. By dat time de fair will be
over an’ Sugar will be gone away on de excussion, an’ I won’t know
nothin’ a tall!”
When Skeeter entered the saloon again he found Hitch Diamond waiting
for him.
“Skeeter,” he said with an air of dejection, “I foun’ dat nigger gal
ridin’ ’roun’ town in a buggy, an’ she pronounce dat she ain’t gwine
arm roun’ wid no kind of nigger excusin’ a high-yaller coon like you.
She say she’s dead stuck on you, an’ she gimme de go-down.”
“Dat’s right, Hitch,” Skeeter replied complacently. “Dem arrangements
I made wid you is all called down. Me an’ Miss Sugar is done made a
trade.”
“Whar does I come in on de trade?”
“You comes in right now, Hitch,” Skeeter said affably. “I’s gwine pay
you dat ten dollars you loant me.”
From the brown hand-satchel under the bar Skeeter counted out ten
silver dollars and passed the money to his friend. Then he said: