“You shore is spreadin’ yo’se’f out, Elder,” Skeeter said, as he set his chair close beside Vinegar. “You look like a buzzard whut is tryin’ to fly back’ards an’ upside down at de same time.”
“I’s like a watermillyum vine,” Vinegar boomed. “When I gits sot good, I begins to spraddle.”
Skeeter reached to his hip pocket and brought out his dream book.
“Whut you flashin’ dat book aroun’ fer, Skeeter?” Atts asked suspiciously. “De Bible say dat many study is weary on de flesh.”
“I needs some advices from a scholard,” Skeeter remarked as he lighted a cigarette. “I done smoked up a whole pack of dese here things in de las’ half-hour. I’s powerful worrited in my mind.”
“You done come to de right place fer advices, son,” Atts announced with confidence. “Ef you got anything to ax me, jes’ bawl out!”
“Does you b’lieves in dreams, Elder?” Skeeter began.
“Well, suh, dat depen’s,” Rev. Vinegar Atts announced after a moment of cogitation. “As a preacher, of co’se, I b’lieves in Proverdunce; but ef you ’terrogates me jes’ as a common cullud nigger pusson—of co’se dat’s plum’ diffunt.”
“Is you had any dreams recent?” Skeeter inquired.
“Yes, suh; I dreamt about a wash-tub las’ night,” Vinegar informed him.