“Dat Vinegar Atts never did hab no sense. Now he raves an’ rambles when he talks wid his mouth. De Shoofly needs a new up-to-date preacher.”
Pap walked over to the tabernacle, sought out Mrs. Solly Skaggs, and bowing with exaggerated courtesy, he asked:
“Kin I dance dis here prize-dance wid you, Sister Solly?”
A shrill cackle of laughter rattled in Pap’s ear and he turned to look into the sardonic face of Skeeter Butts.
“I done saved you, Sister Solly,” Skeeter snickered.
“You done got left, Pap,” Solly remarked. “I’s dancin’ fer de prize wid Figger Bush.”
“You’s gwine to win de prize, too, Solly,” Skeeter said in a low tone. “Dat is, ef you dances wid Figger. You cain’t git a showin’ dancin’ wid Pap. Ole age an’ fatness makes a powerful poor combine in a dance.”
“We ain’t axin’ you fer no remarks,” Pap snarled, turning to Skeeter.
“Beg parding fer buttin’ in, Pap,” Skeeter laughed. “I wus jes’ surprised dat you wus takin’ up dancin’ at yo’ age.”
Skeeter turned away, and as Pap had failed to secure a partner, there was nothing for him to do but retire from the floor, lamenting the fact that he had paid a dime for the privilege of dancing and lost his money. He sat down on a bench on the edge of the throng and gave himself up to deep meditation.