At this moment Wash Jones stepped to the middle of the floor, pulled proudly at one of his squirrel-tail mustaches, knocked upon a dining-table with the nicked edge of a thick, granite saucer, and commanded silence.
“I announces dar will be a prize-dance at de tabernacle to-night. It will be de last dance of de evenin’. Five cents lets you into de tabernacle to perceive de dancers, ten cents will gib you de right to dance. At de end of de last dance a prize will be gib away to de lucky winner. De show begins at ten o’clock.”
“I’s reckin I’ll hab to trod ’em a few,” Skeeter sighed. “Got to do somepin to ease up my mind.”
“I don’t allow Scootie an’ Figger to dance,” Popsy snapped. “’Tain’t decent an’ religium to cut monkey-shines like dat at a camp-meetin’. Married folks oughter sottle down an’ behave.”
“I agree wid you,” Skeeter grinned, winking at Figger Bush. “Bofe of ’em is gittin’ too ole an’ stiff to dance an’ Figger never wus no account dancer nohow. As fer Scootie, she dances like one dese here Teddy bears.”
“’Tain’t so,” Scootie snapped. “You gimme a couple dances wid you to-night an’ I’ll show you—ouch!”
Figger kicked Scootie under the table and pounded on the top of the table with his fist to drown her voice, looking fearfully the while at Popsy Spout to see if he was listening to her remarks.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “Whut you want to be such a splatter-jaw fer? Watch whut you’s sayin’!”
Scootie cast a frightened look at Popsy, but the old man showed by his next question that he had not noticed her break.
“Whut kind prizes does dey gib fer de dance, Skeeter?”