“Naw,” Skeeter snapped. “No such good luck. Mebbe ef he sleeped here till mawnin’ he’d roll off dis table an’ break his fool neck!”
“He’s love-sick,” old Isaiah cackled. “He gittin’ ready to marry.”
“Shore!” Pap snarled. “He tripped up my legs an’ throwed me down. I wus in hopes Popsy wus sick—less shove him off dis table an’ kill him!”
Then another man entered the restaurant. He was a fat, pot-bellied negro, his head bald except for two tufts of hair growing over his ears which made him look like a big fat-faced mule wearing a blind bridle.
“Hello, brudders!” the Rev. Vinegar Atts bellowed. “How come you-alls didn’t stay at de weddin’?”
“Never heard tell about dat’n,” Skeeter exclaimed. “Who is de victims?”
“Brudder Wash Jones an’ Sister Solly Skaggs!”
“Whoo-pee-ee!” Figger Bush screamed. “De Lawd wus shorely wid me. Wash is done saved my life!”
Figger’s wild yell of exultation aroused Popsy from his slumbers. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Then he saw Isaiah Gaitskill.
“I done decided not to marry Solly, Brudder Isaiah,” he whined. “I tuck a little nap an’ I dreamt a dream dat Calline, my fust wife, come to me an’ warned me to beware of widders. She said dey wus awful treach’rous an’ deceivin’.”