“Figger an’ Scootie,” Popsy declared. “Bofe of dem young folks abstains from de dance.”
“Who say dey does?”
“I says,” Popsy replied impatiently.
“Whut would you do ef you wuster see Figger dancin’ to-night, Popsy?” Pap asked in wheedling tones.
“I’d bust his head wid my stick an’ I wouldn’t let him inherit none of my dollars, an’ I’d drive him an’ his nigger wife outen my cabin,” the old man announced irately.
“I’s kinder skeart Figger is a deceitful nigger, Popsy,” Pap said in a bitter voice. “I happens to know dat he is gwine dance in de prize-dance to-night.”
“’Tain’t so,” Popsy snapped. “I done tole Figger to go to bed.”
The music started in the pavilion and Pap rose to his feet.
“Come wid me, Popsy,” Pap said. “I’ll show you dat Figger ain’t as good as you thinks he is.”
On the edge of the crowd Popsy shaded his age-dimmed eyes with the palm of his hand and watched the swaying forms until he recognized Figger Bush. Figger’s dancing partner was the easiest thing to see on the floor, but Figger was completely eclipsed at intervals in the convolutions of the dance.