“He shore did ack familious wid anodder man’s job,” Skeeter agreed. “But whut made de mostes’ hit wus his looks: he’s got a new suit of clothes, an’ gold eye-specks, an’ a ruben ring. He waves a silk handkercher, totes a teethbrush an’ wears pink socks.”
“All dem things is jes’ like de curl in a pig’s tail,” Vinegar Atts proclaimed. “Dey is ornamental, but dey don’t make no more pig!”
“Dat’s a fack,” Skeeter grinned. “But a pig whut ain’t got no ornamint twist in his tail a-tall is suttinly pure scrub!”
Vinegar stooped and recovered the bowl of his pipe, refilled it and began to smoke furiously. Skeeter fiddled with a brass wrist-watch which he wore with prideful ostentation. A hound dog lying upon the saloon steps scratched himself with such a noisy and monotonous knocking of his elbow against the boards that Vinegar roused himself and hurled maledictions and pine knots at him.
Then Skeeter asked:
“When is de cormittee gwine hold its las’ meetin’?”
“To-morrer night in my orfice in de Shoofly church,” Vinegar told him. “I figger dat’ll be de las’ time I’ll ever set by dat table. Of co’se, de cormittee will vote agin me an’ de church will vote wid de cormittee.”
“Whut is you gwine do fer a livin’?” Skeeter asked with interest.
“I done got me a job as Marse Tom Gaitskill’s butler,” Vinegar said. “Hitch Diamond, he used to buttle fer Marse Tom, but de kunnel specify dat Hitch couldn’t show no hon’able scars whar he hurt hisself wuckin’, so he fired him. I got Hitch’s job.”
“Dat wus good luck fer you,” Skeeter said in a delighted tone.