“He’s done snuck in agin,” Figger informed him. “He’s all here—de same flossy vest an’ de same big watch-chain ’thout no watch to it, an’ de same mouthful of chawin’ terbacker. But his mouth is done changed.”
“Whut done happened to his mouth?”
“He’s growed two long mustaches whut comes down de sides of his nose plum’ below his chin. He looks like a nigger whut had swallowed two cat-squirrels an’ lef’ deir tails hangin’ out!”
“Whut you reckin he done dat fer?” Skeeter asked.
“He ain’t refawmin’ nothin’, is he?” Skeeter asked uneasily.
“Naw, suh. He’s organizin’. He done throwed up his Nights of Darkness Lodge job an’ is cornductin’ health resorts fer cullud pussons.”
“Dar ain’t no sick niggers in Tickfall,” Skeeter said with relief. “He’s done busted in bizziness an’ don’t know it.”
“Dar ain’t no real sick niggers,” Figger agreed. “But plenty of us feels jes’ tol’able an’ b’lieves dat we needs a rest.”
“Restin’ time an’ Sunday comes nachel wid niggers,” Skeeter grinned. “You ain’t sweeped out dis saloon fer about six mont’s.”