“De paper don’t say,” Skeeter Butts declared tremblingly. “But I figger it’s some kind of new worm or bug. All de niggers has ’em.”
“I wonder ef dat’s how come I feels so bad?” Figger Bush asked fearfully, pulling at his little shoebrush mustache. “I thought I needed a drink or somepin, but dis writin’ says it’s a epizootic!”
“No mo’ drinks fer you, Figger,” Vinegar Atts rumbled. “Ef you figger on havin’ any shore hopes of heaven, you better cut it out!”
“I—I—I swears off now!” Figger stuttered, looking at Atts with eyes which nearly popped out of his head.
“All us niggers better refawm,” Hitch Diamond declared. “I don’t b’lieve prize-fightin’ is a fitten occupation fer a nigger about to die!”
“Sellin’ booze shorely ain’t a heavenly job,” Skeeter said sadly. “I never thought ’bout dat befo’.”
“Preachin’ don’t he’p a nigger be as good as I wish it would,” Rev. Vinegar Atts lamented. “I’s a real mean nigger myse’f!”
“Ef all de niggers in Tickfall dies, whut’ll de white folks do fer wuck-hands?” Figger Bush asked.
“Huh,” Hitch Diamond grunted. “No white man wouldn’t miss you! You ain’t did a day’s wuck sense you wus bawned.”
“I wus bawned tired,” Figger said defensively. “I’s jes’ nachelly one of dese set-easy niggers!”