He rapidly turned over the pages of the preface, indicating a place on the page, and allowed Vinegar to resume his reading.
“‘Do not rush students through deir trainin’. Haste makes waste. Dis fack should be inscribed on de door of every hangar.’”
“Hanger!” Figger Bush exclaimed. “How come dat book speaks about hangin’? I thought we wus talkin’ about flyin’, an’ now you done got off de subjeck.”
The other three negroes looked at Red Cutt rebukingly, as if they also thought that he had brought into the matter of flying a theme which no negro in the South cares to discuss. He is willing to walk, to run, to swim or fly, but he has an insuperable aversion to hanging.
“Dat shows dat you niggers have got a heap to learn,” Red Cutt laughed. “A hangar is jes’ like a stable. You keeps a buggy in de stable, an’ a automobile in de garage, an’ a airplane in a hangar.”
“Mebbe so,” Skeeter said in a dissatisfied tone. “But I don’t like dat word, jes’ de same.”
“Dar ain’t no noose to dis hangar I speaks of,” Red Cutt assured him.
“No noose is good noose,” Skeeter proclaimed. “But I don’t like dat word.”
“Don’t let a word pester you,” Red Cutt laughed as he rose to his feet and picked up his hat. “Meet me at de Nights of Darkness lodge to-night an’ I’ll tell you some things dat will git on your squeamishness heap wuss dan a word.”
“We will all be dar!” the quartet chorused.