A moment later, Vinegar said:
“Figger, ain’t you got no luck-charms or rabbit foots dat you kin loant me fer a little while?”
“Naw,” Figger grinned. “Dey don’t do no good. I done tried ’em out!”
“Does you believe in dreams, Figger?” Skeeter asked after the three had seated themselves.
“Shore!” Figger answered, “I dreamed ’bout a rabbit las’ night. De Revun is done reminded my mind by axin’ ’bout my rabbit foot.”
“I’s gwine tell you whut dat dream means, Figger,” Skeeter announced, looking at his book. “‘Rabbit—To dream of a rabbit denotes some bad accidunt.’”
Have you ever seen a goose sitting in a summer shower when a big drop of rain hits him on the top of his head? A whitish film comes over his eyes, he looks up at the sky with a ludicrous appearance of meekness and humble supplication, then ducks his head beneath his wing and waits for the worst to happen.
When this appalling interpretation of his dream struck Figger on the top of his head he looked up at the sky with filmed eyes, then walked to the middle of the churchyard and stood upright with legs as wabbly as those of a new-born calf.
“Fetch me a chair out here, Skeeter,” he howled. “Don’t make me stan’ up any longer—I mought fall over an’ bust my head or somepin. I’s gwine set out from under dat tree! Set down in dat chair, Skeeter, an’ see ef it is solid—it might break down an’ run one of dem spokes clean through me.”
Skeeter tested the chair, and Figger sank down upon it with an air of thankfulness. Then he sighed: