“Listen to dat!” Skeeter exclaimed, his hair standing up on his head. “Ain’t dat plum’ awful?”
“Whut dey doin’ wid Swampo’s picture in dat book?” Vinegar wanted to know.
“Dis book is named atter Swampo,” Skeeter informed him. “It’s called de Affican Dream Book.”
“Go ’way wid dat book, Skeeter!” Vinegar bawled. “O Lawdy, I wonder whar I kin borry a rabbit foot at?”
He sprang up, began to search his pockets, and announced tragically:
“I ain’t got no luck-charms but a buckeye, a raw pertater, de toof of a hoss, an’ de foot of a mud-turkle!”
Then happening to glance down to where a road ran around the foot of the hill on which the church was located, he waved his arms wildly and bellowed:
“Hey, Figger Bush! Come over here a minute! Come prompt, cullud man!”
Figger looked up, vaulted the churchyard fence, and came up the hill toward them, wading through weeds shoulder high.
“Don’t you say nothin’ ’bout dat book till I borrers his rabbit foot, Skeeter!” Vinegar admonished in a low tone as the two watched Figger’s approach.