“Whar in de name of mud is you been at?” Skeeter Butts howled as he glared at his wristwatch. “Is you wuckin’ in dis saloon or is you ain’t? You expeck me to pay you wages when you comes here at mighty nigh dinner-time an’ aims to do a day’s wuck?”
“I been listenin’ to Pap Curtain make a speech,” Little Bit snickered. “He’s got a chunk of rock salt in one hand an’ a sour lemon in de yuther, an’ he’s talkin’ about all de sins of de Uplifters. He wants me to he’p him win out.”
“You!” Skeeter Butts shrieked.
“You!” Figger howled.
“Suttinly,” Little Bit answered. “I got plenty influence an’ kin git a lot of votes. Pap say to me dat plenty offices is to be give away to his supporters ef he gits elected an’ he done tipped me off dat I’ll be de fust high janitor at four dollars per mont’ pay.”
“But me an’ Figger is gwine be neuter in dis race,” Skeeter snapped. “De Hen-Scratch saloon will be de grand high headquarters of all de politics. Dis saloon mussn’t take no sides.”
“I ain’t no pardner here,” Little Bit replied. “Nobody won’t pay no mind to me.”
“All right,” Skeeter said after a moment’s thought. “I reckin you don’t count fer nothin’ nohow. But I don’t stand fer no politickin’ about dis place. Ef you gits to makin’ any of Pap’s speeches fer him, I’ll shore suppress you.”
Little Bit shuffled his high-heeled pumps in a few dance steps to show his contempt for this warning and passed out.
“I hope dis politics disease ain’t ketchin’,” Figger sighed. “Little Bit is done got de germ.”