“Whut is dat one silver dollar fer, Skeeter?”
“To he’p buy a D.D.,” Skeeter informed him.
“Whut am a D.D.?” Bush inquired.
“It’s a—a—a kawlidge piece of paper wid writin’ on it,” Skeeter explained lamely.
“How much do she cost?” Bush persisted.
“Fifty dollars,” Skeeter told him.
A murmur of protest ran around the room. No one had the remotest idea what Skeeter was talking about, but they could all grasp the significance of fifty dollars. It was apparent that they would not favor buying anything for Vinegar Atts which cost that much money.
“I don’t ketch on to dis here foolishness,” Figger complained. “I don’t gib none of my money fer somepin I ain’t understood in my mind. I motions dat Vinegar Atts git up an’ tell us whut he wants us to git him.”
“Dar is a white man in town whut wants to make me a preachin’ doctor,” Vinegar explained. “De license cost fifty dollars an’ some of my frien’s an’ lodge brudders wants me to git it.”
“Whut does you aim to doctor—hosses?” Figger asked.