“Yes, I know, but you don’t understand—where are all those people?”
“Dey’s all gone out to Lake Basteneau fishin’, boss. I’se gwine out as soon as I git dis fence whitewashed. A new coon done come to town and tole me he was de beau of dat Lalla Cordona. He’s done fotch her a red ruben necklace an’ a ruben ring, an’ I guess dat’s so. He hired me to drive him out dar.”
“I’ll go out there and bring them back,” Rouke said.
“’Twon’t do no good, boss. Dey won’t ack. All dem mens and womens say dey ain’t gwine do it. Dey got conscience scruples.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Vinegar scratched his head and answered, choosing his words with care:
“Well, suh, dey is all agreed dat dey ain’t gwine hab deir pictures took sashayin’ aroun’ in de woods widout no pants on!”
Rouke sat down on the end of a log and fanned himself with his hat. Then he said:
But why record what Shirley Rouke said?
Nothing but the Diabolos Gazette printed on asbestos paper on O-hell street in Purgatory Bottom would dare to publish the language of anger and disgust and exasperation to which Rouke gave vocal utterance.