“Jes’ ile my machinery aplenty an’ I’ll run along smooth,” Wash grinned as he pocketed the money. “Who is de couple you wants to win dis prize-dance?”
“Figger Bush an’ Sister Solly Skaggs.”
“Gosh!” Wash Jones exploded as he thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out the three dollars and handed them back to Skeeter. “I loves money but I ain’t troublin’ trouble.”
“Whut ails dem plans?” Skeeter asked, thrusting back the hand which offered him the money.
“In de fust place, Sister Solly Skaggs can’t win a prize in no kind of dance whutsoever. She cain’t dance no more dan a Mefdis meetin’-house. In de secont place it’s a little too raw fer you to be de judge of a dance an’ gib de prize to yo’ own pardner in de saloon bizzness.”
“I sees de light,” Skeeter said in a surprised tone. “I suttinly did mighty nigh slip up on dat plan. Wonder whut we kin do to he’p you earn dat money an’ still act honest?”
“Dat question is ’most too heavy fer my mind,” Wash said indifferently. “I’ll keep dis three dollars an’ let you think up yo’ own plan. Ef it don’t wuck, I’ll gib you yo’ money back.”
“Whut kind of prizes is you gwine gib, Wash?” Skeeter asked.
“Whutever kind of prizes you wants to buy,” Wash grinned. “I leaves it wid you to pick ’em an’ pay fer ’em.”
“I thought you had ’em already selected!” Skeeter exclaimed.