“Dar now!” Vinegar Atts boomed. “Whenever a white man shows up at a nigger chu’ch, de niggers lose deir religion right away. Nobody bawls ‘Amen,’ nobody whoops ‘Hallelujah,’ an’ nobody gits happy. An’ when white mens shows up at a nigger fishin’ picnic—boof! de fun is done all over. Excusin’ dat, dem white men ain’t real pious—dey cuss!”
Skeeter Butts beat the New Orleans lover in a foot race to Miss Cordona’s buggy, helped her out, and engaged her in a rapid-fire conversation while he hitched her horse to a tree.
“Dem jewelry you got on yo’ pusson is shore squinchin’ to de eyes, Laller,” he proclaimed in admiring tones.
“Yes, suh,” Lalla remarked with self-satisfaction, as she preened herself before him revealing every excruciating gaud and gewgaw she could buy from the ten-cent store. “De man whut sold it to me told me dat ev’y piece was rolled gold—he specify dat wus de purest kind of gold whut is!”
“Dat’s right!” Skeeter agreed. “You’s gwine be de only dazzle on dis fish camp—nobody cain’t shine while you is aroun’.”
When Skeeter beat him to the buggy, the city beau had simply lifted his hat to Lalla and walked away. At that moment the automobile arrived, and the stranger found consolation in watching the white men and their cameras.
Impelled by curiosity, the other negroes had gathered around, and the new coon saw a good opportunity to show off.
“Boss,” he inquired of Mr. Rouke, “is you-alls movin’ picture mens?”
“Yes.”
“Is you gwine take pictures of dis here lake?”