“Less don’t gib de ancestors no show at him,” Figger Bush squealed. Figger was covered with whitewash, had done his first day’s work for years, and was feeling righteous. “Less hang him to a tree an’ larn him a lesson!”
“Hol’ on, fellers!” Skeeter begged earnestly. “I didn’t ketch on ’bout dis rule. I figgered dat a nigger whut had a job oughter stay on it. De Tickfall niggers all j’ined de refawm, but I thought I oughter stay on my job so I could sell booze to de coons from de swamp an’ de plantations. But none of ’em didn’t buy!”
“You git outen dis sinful saloon an’ go to wuck,” Hitch howled, shaking his hamlike fist under Skeeter’s nose, “or I’ll bust yo’ fool neck!”
“Yo’ intentions is good, Hitch,” Vinegar Atts said reprovingly; “but you is done busted rule two whut says ‘no quorlin’,’ an’ you mighty nigh fractioned rule number three whut specifies ‘no fightin’!”
“I—er—uh—Skeeter knows I ain’t mean no harm,” Hitch murmured painfully. “I jes’ said dat because I loves him. I’d druther bust his neck dan not hab him foller along atter us when us goes to heaben.”
“I’ll git good,” Skeeter said meekly. “I’ll see Marse John Flournoy as soon as it’s good daylight to-morrer.”
“Better not pesticate Marse John, Skeeter,” Figger Bush advised him. “He tole me dat de nex’ nigger whut axed him fer a job wus flirtin’ wid a hearse!”
“Whut kin I do?” Skeeter lamented. “Dar uster be mo’ free jobs dan willin’ niggers; now dar’s mo’ niggers dan jobs.”
“Ef you cain’t wuck fer somebody else, wuck, for yo’se’f,” Vinegar Atts advised him. “Git a scrub-brush an’ slop-bucket an’ scour out dis here saloom. Git a sack of lime an’ whitewash it! Dis house belongs to Sheriff Flournoy, an’ he’ll remember you kind when you is goned hencefo’th an’ ain’t never no mo’!”
“I’ll shore do it!” Skeeter assured them.