“Dat means de picnic dinner is sot,” Skeeter interpreted. “Us better hurry or all dem yuther niggers will wollop up de grub.”
As they took their places at the long table where the food was piled up in an appalling and unappetizing mass, Vinegar Atts bellowed:
“Who is de she-queen you is armin’ aroun’, Skeeter?”
“Dis here is my gwine-be wife,” Skeeter grinned. “Her name’s Coco.”
“It’s ’bout time you wus gittin’ married an’ sottled down,” Rev. Vinegar Atts proclaimed, scenting a wedding fee. “Den you’ll be king of de coconut tree. Ef you puts off gettin’ married too long, you gits outen de habit of wantin’ to be.”
“Me an’ Coco is got de same mind now,” Skeeter snickered, proud of the attention they were attracting. “Coco is de mascop at de ball game dis afternoon.”
At the far end of the table the manager of the Sawtown team heard this last remark and uttered an exclamation. Stepping over to one of his players he asked:
“Buff’lo, how come us fergot to fetch a mascop along wid us?”
“Dunno, cap,” Buffalo replied. “I got my rabbit’s foot.”
“Dem Tickfall coons is got a woman fer a mascop,” the manager said. “An dey got Figger Bush fer a pitcher, an’ Prince Total ketches. Dat powerful arrangement shore looks bad to me.”