“I ain’t gwine win no prize. Dar cain’t be no prize-dancin’ wid dat fat ole cow. De judges would laugh at us.”
“I’ll fix de judges,” Skeeter laughed. “Leave it wid me an’ Wash Jones.”
“You ain’t fixin’ to buy up de judges, is you?” Figger asked.
“Naw. I’s fixin’ to buy Wash Jones. ’Twon’t cost much. Wash is a cheap nigger.”
IV
THE JOYOUS TROUBLE-MAKERS
Wash Jones was standing behind the tabernacle, mopping the copious perspiration that streamed from his baboon face.
“I finds dis here bizzness a heap more wuck dan I bargained fer,” he complained to Skeeter Butts. “When I fust started out I thought dat niggers would jes’ entertain deyselfs an’ not expeck nothin’ from me but de pleasure of my comp’ny. But I finds dat dey expecks me to be on de job of waitin’ on ’em all de time.”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter snickered. “Ef I charged admissions to my saloon I wouldn’t allow no niggers to wait on demselfs. I’d hab to serve ’em.”
“I done collected all de admission-fares I expecks to git,” Wash sighed, fanning himself with his big hat. “As fer as I’m concerned, dis here show kin end right now.”
“Ef you end her up now de people will kick an’ want deir money back,” Skeeter reminded him. “You done collected up fer a week in eegsvance.”