Old Popsy Spout stood on the edge of the throng and watched her elephantine performances on the dancing-floor. Growing weary, he walked over and sat down upon a bench beside Pap Curtain.
“Look at dat fool nigger gal, Pap,” he whined. “I been livin’ off and on nigh onto one hundred year an’ I done seen plenty sights, but dat fat fool flounderin’ on dat floor is de wust sight till yit.”
“Don’t preach so loud, Popsy,” Pap said with a warning hiss. “You mought hurt dat cullud lady’s feelin’s.”
“I ain’t preachin’,” Popsy snapped. “I’s tellin’ facks. Excusin’ dat, she ain’t got no feelin’s. Her feelin’s is padded two-foot deep in fat. I bet she’s got some age on her, too.”
“Not too much age fer a widder,” Pap said. “An’ she’s wuth consid’able money since her fust husbunt up an’ died on her. Five hundred dollars will keep dat woman fat fer a long time.”
“Why don’t you git in de race, Pap?” Popsy suggested. “You ain’t got no wife now.”
“Dat’s my bizzness right now,” Pap grinned. “I needs a little cash money to start a saloon.”
“You ain’t figgerin’ to buy out Figger an’ Skeeter in de Hen-Scratch, is you?” Popsy asked.
“Naw, suh, I’s fixin’ to run ’em out,” Pap said confidently, as he arose and walked away.
Popsy arose, too, pushed his way through the crowd and went in search of Figger Bush. He found Figger and his wife and Skeeter Butts in the Shin Bone eating-house. He hastened to their table, rested his rusty stove-pipe hat upon the top of the table and sat down.