“Dar’s plenty in it fer you,” Pap told him. “A presidunt is got to hab a vice-presidunt, ain’t he? I wants you to run wid me an’ be my vice-presidunt. In case I dies or gits in jail, you gits de presidunt job.”
Figger Bush drew in his breath sharply, then sat for a long time in silence, looking into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree. Honors had been suddenly thrust upon him. Pap was old and his chance of dying was good. He was a “slick-head” negro, and his chance of getting into jail was better. It did not require much imagination for Figger Bush to see all obstacles cleared away, and behold himself as the honored president of the Uplift League.
Scootie’s hot cakes got cold; Figger never did come home to eat them.
Skeeter Butts tended bar alone until sundown before he saw his partner again. When Figger entered, Skeeter howled:
“Looky here, you done been gone long enough to go to a fun’ral an’ mourn de loss of yo’ best frien’. Did dem hot cakes knock you out?”
“Ain’t had none,” Figger answered, glancing up in surprise at the sudden recollection of his lost dinner. “Fergot all about ’em.”
“Whut ails you? Whar you been at? De fust notion you know, you’ll git fired!”
“Ef I gits elected, I don’t keer ef——”
“Ef you git—whut?” Skeeter interrupted, his eyes bulging with astonishment, which rapidly changed to anger and disgust.
“Pap Curtain is candidated me to run fer vice-presidunt wid him,” Figger explained. “Ef Pap dies or gits in jail, I gits to be plum’ presidunt. De chances is pretty good. Pap digs wells fer a livin’ an’ he’s got plenty good chances to git blowed wid dynamite.”