“Dar now!” Skeeter said to himself exultantly, as his little machine rattled off the miles back to Tickfall. “I done got dat fixed right. Figger is vice-presidunt on one side an’ I is vice-presidunt on de yuther side, an’ bofe sides is promised to make de Hen-Scratch deir headquarters.”
Seven miles of sandy road slipped under his flying wheels like a brown ribbon while he contemplated this master stroke of business. He placed his little machine under the shed and climbed into bed before he spoke to himself again:
“Dat’s whut I calls a good sense compromise.”
IV
“Now, Figger,” Skeeter Butts announced the next morning, “I got such a idjut fer a partner in dis here saloon dat I had to go git myse’f candidated fer pol’tics.”
“Is you runnin’ fer presidunt?” Figger asked. “I thought you said you squealed too much when you talked.”
“I’s runnin’ fer vice-presidunt,” Skeeter said solemnly. “I’s runnin’ wid Mustard Prophet an’ us is shore gwine gib you an’ Pap Curtain a happy time gittin’ elected.”
“Dat looks bad to me, Skeeter—pardners in bizzness runnin’ ag’in’ each yuther.”
“Dat’s de best bizzness trick I’s done yit,” Skeeter said confidently. “Bofe sides uses dis house fer headquarters. I sells drinks to de Mustard Prophets an’ you sells drinks to de Pap Curtains, an’ we ketch ’em comin’ an’ gwine.”
“I sees,” Figger exclaimed in a voice which throbbed with admiration. “Dat’s de best nigger idear in Tickfall. We’ll git rich an’ one of us will git elected.”