“I ain’t heerd tell about dat. But I ain’t supprized none. I got all de attrackshuns on dis Coon Island whut is.”
“Dey tells me dis widder is got a dead husbunt an’ five hundred dollars,” Skeeter continued.
Wash dropped his plug of tobacco and stooped to pick it up. That Skeeter had this information was not a surprise to him; it was a shock.
“Who mought dat widder be?” Wash asked.
“Sister Solly Skaggs,” Skeeter informed him.
“I knows her,” Wash groaned. “Fat—O Lawd! Ef dat gal wuster drap dead, dey’d hab to git a mud-scow outen de river fer a coffin, an’ de only hole in de groun’ big enough to put her in is Marse Tom’s sand pit. Dat five hundred dollars don’t int’rust my mind, naw, suh, not at all, not at all!”
“Don’t waste no time thinkin’ about it,” Skeeter sighed. “Pap Curtain is done spoke fer it—de fat’s in de fire.”
“Which?” Wash Jones exclaimed in a tone that popped like a gun. “Pap Curtain?”
“Pap done pulled de curtain down on de widder,” Skeeter assured him. “Nobody else needn’t look at her charms.”
Wash Jones turned around three times, as if looking for some place to go and practically undecided about what direction to choose.