“But Pap oughter git you some customers,” Skeeter protested.
“Pap ain’t got de right follerin’,” Shin sighed. “Niggers dat votes wid Pap is de no-shirt, no-sock outfit, an’ dat kind ain’t got no money to buy vittles. Dey begs deir grub from de cook-ladies in de white folks’ kitchen. Mustard Prophet is got de high-brow, uppity niggers wid him an’ dey’s got de money an’ eats here wid me.”
Skeeter nodded in speechless comprehension of the tragedy, the hand which held the pie wavered and sank slowly to the table, for that pie didn’t look good to Skeeter any more.
“Dem Mustard Prophet voters say dey ain’t never comin’ in here no more,” Shin said dolefully.
“Ef dey don’t feel no better dan I does now, dey wouldn’t fotch you much trade, fer dey couldn’t eat no more dan a brass monkey,” Skeeter sighed, pulling his slice of watermelon closer to him, although unconscious of his action. Beads of apprehensive perspiration stood out on his forehead and a sudden weakness assailed him.
“Whut ails you, Skeeter?” Shin inquired solicitously, for Skeeter had suddenly collapsed like a punctured tire. “Don’t you feel good?”
“Somepin I done et is disagreed wid me,” Skeeter moaned. “Lemme git dis coffee down me befo’ I die!”
Shin waited until Skeeter consumed his coffee and rallied.
“Of co’se, Whiffle cain’t he’p bein’ my wife, an’ she cain’t he’p bein’ kin to Pap, an’ we bofe cain’t he’p it ef Pap runs fer presidunt, but we shore is got our nose broke.”
“Don’t tell me no more, Shinny,” Skeeter exclaimed, waving both hands and rising to his feet. “My head is crazy now.”