“I bet you is flirtin’ wid a jail, too,” Skeeter asserted.
“Mebbe so. I cain’t tell you no more——”
Suddenly she stopped and stared at the closed door in the rear of the saloon through which tiny spirals of smoke were issuing by way of the cracks.
“Is you fumigatin’, Skeeter?” she asked.
“Fumigatin’ whut?” Skeeter asked, then ran to the door and threw it open.
The room was filled with smoke and a pile of old trash and newspapers in one corner was ablaze.
With a loud whoop, Skeeter and Dazzle ran through the smoke to the fire; from the door which entered into the barroom, Figger Bush came in with a bucket of water, yelling like a wild man. It was all over in a minute.
“Good-by, Skeeter!” Dazzle laughed. “Mebbe us’ll meet in jail.”
“Dat fire is a bad sign for me, Dazzle,” Skeeter sighed. “Troubles is gittin’ ready to happen to me.”
“Things will shore happen whar a white boy an’ a pickaninny monkeys aroun’,” Dazzle told him.