“Ef you ain’t got no real good objections, I goes out dar to-night an’ stays a week,” Figger remarked.
“I don’t like de notion of keepin’ dis saloon while you gallivants off to a nigger frolic,” Skeeter protested.
“But I gotter go,” Figger assured him.
“Nobody ain’t gotter go no place onless he wants to, excusin’ jail,” Skeeter grumbled.
Figger Bush ended the argument by rising from the table, knocking the ashes from his pipe, and retiring to a little room in the rear of the bar to dress. Ten minutes later he came out with a new suit of clothes, a sunburst tie, a high collar and most expansive cuffs, and all the other paraphernalia of a dead-game sport out for a vacation.
“I hates to leave you, Skeeter,” Figger remarked apologetically. “I’s sorry you is got a grouch. But ef I don’t show up at de tabernacle my grandpaw won’t like it.”
“How come you is so suddent oneasy about displeasin’ Popsy Spout?” Skeeter wanted to know.
“Dat ole man is got money in de bank. Some day he’s gwine haul off an’ die. When he do, he’ll inherit me his house an’ all his cash spondulix. Atter dat happens, I’ll buy one-half of dis Hen-Scratch saloon.”
“Dat ole gizzard says he’s gwine live till he’s one hundred year ole,” Skeeter reminded him.
“Dat means you got to wait thirty year fer yo’ money.”