“Nobody ain’t know but Wash Jones,” Skeeter informed him. “Dis is de fust night of de show an’ no prizes ain’t git bestowed yit.”
“’Twon’t be nothin’ but a pack of chawgum fer de lady an’ a box of cigareets fer de man,” Figger said disgustedly. “Wash Jones ain’t gwine gib nothin’ away. I think I’ll cut out de dance an’ go to bed.”
“Me, too,” Popsy whined. “I got a little bed out here in one of dese shacks ef I could find it.”
“It’s down by de lake, Popsy,” Figger told him, glad that Popsy was leaving them. “You won’t hab no trouble gittin’ dar.”
As soon as Popsy had departed, Scootie turned to Figger and snapped:
“You mighty nigh kicked my leg off an’ ole Popsy didn’t pay no mind to whut I wus sayin’ at all.”
“Stop talkin’ ’bout dancin’ whar Popsy is,” Figger growled. “Dat ole man will git mad an’ gib all his money to furin missionaries when he dies.”
“You’s makin’ yo’se’f tired fer nothin’, Figger,” Skeeter giggled. “Popsy will find out about yo’ dancin’ powerful soon.”
“How soon?” Figger asked.
“As soon as you an’ Sister Skaggs wins dem prizes to-night.”