“Whut is jog’erfy?”
The answer came back glibly and without a flaw:
“Jog’erfy is de science of de earth an’ de art of navergashun.”
This was said in such a matter of fact, positive tone that I almost caught my breath. But I soon learned that all their answers, right or wrong, came with the same assurance and without a quiver. The old man squinted one eye and said:
“Den I s’pose you’d say a coon-dog was de science ob coon-killin’ an’ de art ob barkin’. I turns you down on dat. Nex’!”
“Jog’erfy,” said Pompey, “Jog’erfy! Brer Washington, ain’t dat got sumpin’ to do sorter lak a narrer neck jinin’ two dem-johns of lan’, sorter lak an’ so forth or sumpin lak it?”
“Wal, it may smell ob de jug a leetle,” said the old man, “but it don’t gine de demi-john to de extent ob pullin’ out de cork. Nex’.”
“Jog’erfy,” said the Slick One, “is de art ob joggin’ and de science ob gwine round circles.”
This set the old man to thinking. He scratched his head and inspected the candidate closely. “Ain’t you de nigger dat use ter swipe old Hal P’inter when he went to de races?”
“Yassir.”