“I come aroun’ to ax you-alls is Popsy still got dat thousan’ dollars in Marse Tom Gaitskill’s bank,” Isaiah proceeded, taking no notice of the terrible effect of his announcement.
“Whoosh!” Skeeter sighed again.
“I got a notion dat Popsy’s suttinly still got it,” Isaiah continued. “Dat ole monkey don’t spen’ no money—he saves it.”
“Whoosh!” Skeeter muttered.
There was a long silence, the men looking at each other without a word. After a while Isaiah began to drum on the table with his horny fingernails, and the sound was as annoying and as startling in the stillness as the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker trying to drill a hole through a tin roof. Slowly Figger recovered his power of speech. He glared at Skeeter uttering one intelligible sentence:
“You is to blame fer dis!”
And then he began to “cuss.” It was an edifying exhibition to one interested in the use of forcible words, interested in the efficiency attained through long practice and experience, and interested in knowing how copious is the English language in terms of profanity, blasphemy, and execration.
Isaiah listened, casting a glance of admiration toward Figger now and then as he heard some especially pregnant phrases of vituperation, then he said:
“Save a few cuss-words fer future use, Figger. You’ll need ’em.”
“Keep on, Figger,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Dis here is a cussin’ case an’ you ain’t done de case justice even yit.”