“Whar you gwine git de money at?”
“A fat widder woman’s husbunt is kicked de bucket an’ lef’ her a wad of dough,” Pap chuckled. “I’s gwine marrify de widder, mix dat dough wid my brains an’ start me a place of bizzness.”
“I thought you wus done through wid marrin’ womens,” Skeeter wailed. “You done been kotched fo’ times already.”
“Yas, suh, but in all dem fo’ times I never married no widder. My edgycation is been neglected. Dey wus all young an’ foolish gals. Dis here is a sottled woman—so dang fat dat when she sottles down it takes a block an’ tackle to h’ist her agin.”
“Aw, shuckins!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Whut you marryin’ dat kind of gal fer?”
“Fer five hundred dollars!” Pap said.
Skeeter turned away with a troubled face. Pap looked after him a moment, then purchased three more baseballs to throw at the trigger-paddle.
At the far end of the grounds, Skeeter found Wash Jones.
“Wash,” he said after a little conversation, “I understands dat you is got a prize widder in dis show.”
The big black eyed Skeeter for a moment with suspicion. He took the time to help himself to a big chew of tobacco before he answered, watching Skeeter covertly all the time. At last he said: