“Cain’t sweep her out now, Skeeter,” Figger replied hastily. “Fer a fack, I done come to ax you fer a lay-off fer about two weeks. I needs a change.”
“Wharabouts you gwine change to?” Skeeter asked grouchily.
“Out to de ole tabernacle an’ de prize-fight, picnic, baseball-groun’s, whar Brudder Wash is organizin’ his health resort.”
“How come I ain’t heerd tell ’bout dat?” Skeeter asked.
“He’s been keepin’ it sly because he wus skeart somebody else would think it up an’ beat him to it,” Figger explained. “He done leased de ole camp-groun’s complete, fixed up all de little shacks whar niggers kin stay, hired Shin Bone to run de resteraw, made a dancin’-floor in de ole tabernacle, rented a brass band, an’ is gittin’ ready to rake in de dollars.”
“My Lawd!” Skeeter exclaimed in dismay. “I been livin’ in dis town all my days an’ I never thunk of dat gorgeous idear in my whole life.”
“It shore is a dandy notion,” Figger said with admiration. “Dar’s fo’ springs of water, a great big lake to fish an’ swim in, plenty woods an’ play-groun’s.”
“Gosh! Jes’ think of de money dat’s gwine miss my pants’ pocket,” Skeeter sighed.
“Wash specifies dat dar is a Cooney Island in New Yawk an’ he’s gwine hab a Coon Island in Tickfall.”
“Dat shore is put somepin over on me,” Skeeter mourned.