“She’s done turned loose all she knows,” Skeeter replied.
“I hope so,” Pap said menacingly. “Ef she revelates any mo’ about me I knows a yeller-faced bar-keep’ who is gwine hab his mug pounded into anodder color.”
“No danger—I ain’t skeart,” Skeeter said with a dry grin. “I realizes dat wus a mistake.”
There was silence for a few minutes, a drink for the crowd at Skeeter’s expense, and then Skeeter mentioned a plan he had matured in the night:
“Cain’t us niggers fix up some kind of buzzo on dat gal an’ git even wid her?” he asked.
“Whut mought dat buzzo be?” Vinegar Atts inquired.
“Well, suh, I figgers it out dis way: Dat Deo Diddle is offered a reward fer any handcuffs he can’t git out of. Now ef Sheriff Marse John Flournoy would only loan us some handcuffs——”
“Listen to dat nigger’s brains a-poppin’!” Prince Total exclaimed in extreme admiration. “Fer mussy sake, Skeeter, go see Marse John right now. I’ll keep dis saloom.”
The crowd sat down to wait while Skeeter hastened to the courthouse, entered the sheriff’s office, and stood, hat in hand, grinning at Mr. John Flournoy.
“Come in, Skeeter,” Flournoy said. “I won’t lend any money, won’t hear any nigger love scrapes, won’t give any advice, won’t listen to any of your troubles. Excusing all those things, what else do you want?”