“I’d be powerful glad to turn de job over to some yuther feller fer whut he kin make out of it, ef I had a good excuse fer hittin’ de grit out of here,” Wash suggested.
“I ain’t candidatin’ fer de place,” Skeeter chuckled. “But I kin show you how you kin make a few more easy dollars ef you ain’t keer too much how you got ’em.”
“Spill de beans right here, Skeeter,” Wash answered earnestly. “Dat sounds good to me.”
“My trouble am dis,” Skeeter began. “You is givin’ a prize-dance to-night an’ I wants to pick de winner.”
“I’ll app’int you one of de judges fer one dollar,” Wash said promptly.
“Dat won’t he’p none,” Skeeter said. “Dat’ll jes’ git one vote.”
“I’ll be a judge myse’f an’ dat’ll gib you two votes—dat is, ef you is willin’ to bestow anodder dollar fer my vote.”
“Who will de yuther judge be?”
“Ef you gib me anodder dollar I’ll let you name him yo’se’f,” Wash replied without hesitation. “Pick yo’ own nigger an’ trade wid him pussonly fer his pussonal vote.”
“Here’s three dollars, Wash,” Skeeter chuckled as he rattled the money in his hand. “You shore is a easy nigger to trade wid.”