“How many of dem dreams comes true?” Skeeter asked uneasily, gazing at the gaudy red cover of the book.
“All of ’em,” his companion answered promptly. “A garntee goes wid de book. Try it on wid anodder dream.”
Skeeter hesitated a moment, thinking heavily. Then he said:
“’Bout a week ago I dreamed ’bout rats.”
“Huh!” the other darky grunted as he found the place in the book. “Here am de word: ‘Rats—Se-cret en-e-mies.’”
“Looky here, nigger!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed in a frightened voice as he sprang to his feet, “dat shore is a dangersome book. Put all dem dreams togedder an’ look whut sort of a prize-package I done drawed!”
“Dat package shore is got some lemons in it fer you, Skeeter,” his friend assured him. “De fust dream says dat yo’ life am bad an’ you oughter git reformed; de second dream specify dat you is gwine engage in—in—whut-you-call-it plans; de las’ dream orate dat you got plenty enemies!”
“Dat’s de way it goes,” Skeeter mourned.
“Does you want a garntee dat all ’em dreams will come true?”
“Naw!” Skeeter howled. “I wants a garntee dat none of ’em gits to come to pass.”