“Elder, you go hunt up dem niggers Mr. Rouke tole you ’bout, an’ I’ll rack over to de cotehouse an’ git dem license!”
“Dat’s right,” Vinegar boomed. “Dat white man done plum’ fergot dem cotehouse papers, an’ dis is gwine be a real cotehouse wedding. I fetches ’em off fine, Sudds. You oughter see me git active in a mattermony pufformunce!”
The negroes separated, and three hours later, the wedding party had assembled at the Shoofly church, and Rouke and Pellet arrived, each with a camera.
Peter Pellet got his location, adjusted his machine fixed his side lines and announced himself in readiness.
Rouke studied his characters, then began his instructions:
“Elder Atts, you and Sour Sudds are to come into the picture together and await the arrival of the bride. Lalla Cordona comes in on the arm of Diamond Hitch. All the rest of you folks bunch up together behind the wedding party. Skeeter Butts, you establish yourself—stand out in front of the invited guests, and register pain because you have lost this beautiful bride. Now—ready—rehearse!”
Then Sour Sudds suddenly bethought himself, fumbled in his pocket, trotted into the church and came out with a little square-topped writing table and a chair, and placed them in full view of the camera.
“What the devil—” Rouke began to splutter like the fuse of a cannon-cracker about to explode.
“Dis here table is fer de witnesses to sign de license, boss,” Sudds explained, as he drew a paper out of his pocket, spread it out, and then from the same capacious pocket brought forth a pen and a bottle of ink. “Sheriff John Flournoy gimme dis paper an’ I come mighty nigh fergettin’ it! He didn’t charge me nothin’ fer dis license, neither.”
“I see!” Rouke exclaimed. “Set that table back a little—that’s it! Now you wedding guests come in and stand behind that table—that’s right! Now ready—rehearse!”