“Number foteen!” Duckery called out, taking the slip from the hat with a flourish.
“Nothin’ ain’ wrote on dis’n,” Bennee informed him, unfolding the blank and examining it on both sides.
Duckery looked at him with an ominous scowl, exclaiming:
“Ole country nigger, ain’t you never took part in a raffle befo’?... Dat ain’ de way you gotta call back to me w’en I calls out de number.... If dey ain’ got nothin’ on de paper, all you gotta say to me is Blank.... ’Till you picks out de paper got Prize marked-up on it.... Now go ’head, an’ do de thing right.... An’ lissen good so you kin un’stan’ de numbers w’en I calls ’um.”
“Da’s right, Duckery,” came Carmelite’s earnest approval. “You make dis thing go thoo straight. ’Cause I don’ wan’ have none y’all niggers say I had dese numbers fixed-up befo’ han’. An’ say I robbed ’um out a dime, ’cause dey ain’ had de luck to win de quilt.”
“I know you ain’ talkin’ to me,” she heard Scilla’s sharp staccato call out. “I know I ain’ goin’ bother my good self ’bout raisin’ no trouble over one li’l ole dry dime I done paid out on any quilt.”
“Number nine,” Duckery called in a loud voice.
“Dis’n blank, too,” Bennee answered innocently.
Duckery rolled his eyes and glared at him intently, while everybody laughed at Bennee’s forgetfulness.