“I wish I had my dollar back,” he sighed, as the flames leaped up to the added fuel. “Dat shore wus a dam-fool book.”
The Gift of Power
Vinegar Atts was in trouble.
He sat in the shade of a chinaberry tree in the rear of the Hen-Scratch saloon, his gorilla-like hands nursing his fat knees, his fat stomach resting upon his lap, his moonlike baby face twisted into countless wrinkles as if he were just tuning up to cry. Tiny beads of nervous sweat rolled down his face and neck, and he mopped them off at intervals with an immense red bandanna handkerchief. He jiggered nervously with his ponderous feet, kicking up tiny clouds of sand from the sun-scorched earth. His pipe lay upon the ground by his chair where it had dropped unnoticed when he attempted to put it in his pocket. Skeeter Butts came out of the saloon, carrying his chair. He placed it beside the fat preacher, lighted a cigarette and entered with Vinegar into the silent fellowship of sympathy and understanding.
After a long silence Vinegar said mournfully:
“I cogitate dat they done deeprive me of my goat, Skeeter.”
“Yes, sur; dat’s so, suh. It ’pears to me dat you is fightin’ it out wid yo’se’f fer de las’ place in de race.”
Vinegar Atts sighed. He picked up his pipe from the ground, filled it with strong perique tobacco, lighted it, then let the bowl drop off of the stem, scattering the ashes over his lap and spilling the tobacco. Not noticing the accident, Vinegar sucked vigorously on the stem, and gave himself up to gloomy meditations.
“I been de pasture of de Shoofly church fer twenty year hand-runnin’, Skeeter,” Vinegar remarked at last. “I begged de loose change outen de pockets of de white folks to build dat church. I wus de fust preacher an’ de onlies’ preacher dey is ever had dar. An’ now dey is gwine gib me de farewell go-by.”