“You real shore dey ain’t gwine run you fer presidunt?” Figger asked suspiciously.
“Dey ain’t got no notion of dat kind,” Skeeter replied. “Dey don’t see me at all. Dis here is gwine be a real election an’ it takes a loud speecher to git votes. My voice is too squeaky an’ my size is ag’in’ me. A little runt like me wid a screech-owl voice couldn’t git elected as free-meat man in a dawg town.”
“I’s glad you’s so modest, Skeeter,” his friend grinned. “My idear is dat dis saloon is gwine be de chiefest headquarters of bofe sides of de Uplifters. We’ll rake in a heap of dollars by bein’ puffeckly neuter in dis race. Ef we takes sides, we loses money.”
“Dat’s so,” Skeeter agreed. “But I heerd Pap Curtain talkin’ down in Dirty-Six an’ Pap got de right notion. He says dat we need new blood in de Uplift League. He says dem officers whut’s got de honors now jes’ holds deir jobs an’ don’t do nothin’. He says our race is sinkin’ down because dem Uplifters ain’t liftin’ up. He says dat de pusson who will git charge of dat league an’ make it active an’ yellervate de race will be Tickfall’s most leadin’ cullud sitson.”
“I wouldn’t objeck to bein’ de leadin’ member of de Tickfall blacks,” Figger sighed. “But I’s like you—I ain’t got de voice. I’s got de heft on you, but I don’t weigh as much as Hitch Diamond or Vinegar Atts, an’ ef weight an’ voice is gwine win out, Ginny Babe Chew is got us all beat a mile.”
“Dat’s a funny thing about dis here race,” Skeeter chuckled. “Ginny Babe Chew is a runnin’, too!”
“Uhuh!” Figger grunted. “Dat means dat eve’y Uplifter in de league is gwine have a rep onless dey votes fer her. Dat ole woman knows all de sins all de niggers in Tickfall is cormitted. She tells ’em, too. An’ when it comes to callin’ cuss-names, all us is new beginners to Ginny Babe. Dat gal’s had expe’unce.”
“I ain’t gwine mess wid it, Figger,” Skeeter said, as he thought uneasily of the things Ginny might tell about him. “I don’t want my rep ruint by Ginny Babe. Us’ll bofe be neuter an’ keep dis saloon.”
At that moment the door of the saloon was pushed open and a diminutive darky named Little Bit entered.
Little Bit had apparently robbed a woman’s wardrobe for his wearing apparel. For coat, he wore the upper half of a woman’s coat-suit, the tail flapping down around his knees and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to give exit to his short arms. For a shirt, he wore a woman’s shirt-waist, silk material, flowered and lacy and frilled. We presume that the woman’s husband had contributed the masculine portion of the attire, for the trousers had originally belonged to a man much larger in the waist and much longer in the legs than Little Bit, and the pants were hitched about his middle and cut off at the knees. For hose, he wore—here I cross my heart and hope I may die—a woman’s purple-silk stockings, ending at the feet with a pair of ladies’ pumps, gray suède in color with high French heels!