“Bless Gawd fer dat!” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “Us needs two moons!”
When their fire was lighted, Skeeter Butts sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree which lay beside the road, and said:
“Fellers, dis book is shore handed me a wad of trouble an’ sorrer. It specify dat I is powerful bad an’ oughter git reformed befo’ I dies an’ goes to hell; it argufy dat secret enemies is trailin’ along atter me; an’ it orate dat chi-mer-i-cal plans is tryin’ to engage wid me!”
“Whut kind of plans is dem?” Vinegar Atts asked.
“I dunno, Revun,” Skeeter said miserably. “It ’pears to me like a preacher oughter know somepin ’bout dat. Whut does you figger it am?”
“Well, suh,” Vinegar announced, after a period of deep cogitation, “of co’se I would had to scuffle consid’able to git de real signify of dat long word ’thout no book of commontaters to read up on; but mos’ gin’ly speakin’, I argufies dat dem kind of plans is invenjums of de debbil.”
“How does you know?” Skeeter asked uneasily.
“I argufies dis way,” Vinegar declared, boring with his right middle finger into the palm of his left hand to emphasize his remarks: “Ef you is gwine die an’ go to hell ’thout reformin’ yo’ badness, of co’se yo’ secret enemies am de debbil an’ his angels, an’ dem plans you spoke ’bout is a kind of infernum machine like a cuttin’-box. I bet you git bofe yo behime legs chopped off befo’ to-morrer mawnin’.”
“Lawd,” Skeeter sighed pitiably. “I’s powerful glad dar’s a full moon to-night. She’ll git up over dem trees in a little while. I needs mo’ light!”
In the light of the fire, Skeeter brought out his dream book, and gazed at the red cover design.