Figger sank back in his seat, and Pap again directed his attention to the operations of the little spider, and waited.
“Cain’t you gimme no hint about de tip, Pap?” Figger asked at last. “I wants to git in on somepin good, but I cain’t affode to waste no money.”
“Cross yo’ heart an’ body dat you won’t tell nobody an’ gimme de dollar. Den, when I tells you de secret, ef it ’tain’t wuth a dollar, I’ll hand you de loose change back.”
“Dat sounds resomble,” Figger declared, and the silver dollar changed hands.
“Now, Figger, you listen,” Pap began in a mysterious tone. “Don’t you tell nobody, fer Marse Tom swore me dat he didn’t want nobody to know but a choosen few. Marse Tom is gwine gib a great, big, cotton-pickin’ festerble out at de Niggerheel. He pays de best wages, an’ he wants de bes’ pickers in de parish. De tickets is one dollar, whut I collecks when I gibs de tip. All de niggers is to meet Marse Tom at de bank dis atternoon at three o’clock.”
“Huh!” Figger grunted. “Dat shore sounds good to me. Plenty grub, plenty wages, a barrel of cider at de eend of de cotton-row, an’ all de coons on a cotton-pickin’ picnic! Keep de dollar, Pap. Me an’ Marse Tom is done made a trade.”
Enthusiastic over the idea, Figger sprang to his feet and started away.
“You kin succulate de repote dat somepin’s doin’, Figger,” Pap grinned. “But don’t you gib dat tip away. Marse Tom spoke me special ’bout dat, an’ say he gwine bust de head open of de nigger whut told de secret!”
Pap Curtain stepped into the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, invested a part of Figger’s dollar in a long, strong Perique stogy, and came out again. He sat for half an hour humming to himself, chewing the end of the stogy, smoking slowly, leisurely, and with profound meditation.
He was giving Figger time to circulate the report. He knew that the grape-vine telephone was already at work, and that the news of a big profitable deal would trickle and ooze into every negro cabin in all the negro settlements of Tickfall.