“’Tain’t ketchin’,” Skeeter assured him. “But I shore hopes Pap is gwine win out or some yuther good man. Mustard Prophet oughter be squelched.”
“I ain’t huntin’ no job like dat,” Figger replied as he closed his knife and looked with admiration upon his handiwork. “I’s gwine home to my dinner. Scootie is cooked some hot cakes an’ I’m got a gallon of sirup.”
II
In Pap Curtain’s career he had driven many carriages which transported over the Parish of Tickfall the candidates for the offices within the gift of the people. He now recalled to his profit that every prospective Congressman, Governor, and Senator went from house to house, seeking out each voter, loudly enunciating their political principles, and soliciting their votes.
Figger Bush, on his way home to his dinner of hot cakes and sirup, found a little group of negroes standing on a corner in Dirty-Six, with Pap Curtain in the midst. Pap gesticulated with his left hand, which held a lemon, and his harsh, snarling voice clearly enunciated the principles on which he hoped to be elected president of the Tickfall Uplift League.
Figger slipped quietly around the little group, determined to go on his way. But Pap would let no possible voter escape.
“Ain’t dat so, Brudder Figger Bush?” Pap howled.
“Whut?” Figger asked, brought to a sudden halt.
“Ain’t whut I been sayin’ true fer a fack?” Pap demanded.
“I ain’t heerd nothin’,” Figger mumbled, longing to escape.