Wash Jones was standing behind the tabernacle, mopping the copious perspiration that streamed from his baboon face. “I finds dis here bizzness a heap more wuck dan I bargained fer,” he complained to Skeeter Butts. “When I fust started out I thought dat niggers would jes’ entertain deyselfs an’ not expeck nothin’ from me but de pleasure of my comp’ny. But I finds dat dey expecks me to be on de job of waitin’ on ’em all de time.”
“Suttinly,” Skeeter snickered. “Ef I charged admissions to my saloon I wouldn’t allow no niggers to wait on demselfs. I’d hab to serve ’em.”
“I done collected all de admission-fares I expecks to git,” Wash sighed, fanning himself with his big hat. “As fer as I’m concerned, dis here show kin end right now.”
“Ef you end her up now de people will kick an’ want deir money back,” Skeeter reminded him. “You done collected up fer a week in eegsvance.”
“I’d be powerful glad to turn de job over to some yuther feller fer whut he kin make out of it, ef I had a good excuse fer hittin’ de grit out of here,” Wash suggested.
“I ain’t candidatin’ fer de place,” Skeeter chuckled. “But I kin show you how you kin make a few more easy dollars ef you ain’t keer too much how you got ’em.”
“Spill de beans right here, Skeeter,” Wash answered earnestly. “Dat sounds good to me.”
“My trouble am dis,” Skeeter began. “You is givin’ a prize-dance to-night an’ I wants to pick de winner.”
“I’ll app’int you one of de judges fer one dollar,” Wash said promptly.
“Dat won’t he’p none,” Skeeter said. “Dat’ll jes’ git one vote.”
“I’ll be a judge myse’f an’ dat’ll gib you two votes—dat is, ef you is willin’ to bestow anodder dollar fer my vote.”
“Who will de yuther judge be?”
“Ef you gib me anodder dollar I’ll let you name him yo’se’f,” Wash replied without hesitation. “Pick yo’ own nigger an’ trade wid him pussonly fer his pussonal vote.”
“Here’s three dollars, Wash,” Skeeter chuckled as he rattled the money in his hand. “You shore is a easy nigger to trade wid.”
“Jes’ ile my machinery aplenty an’ I’ll run along smooth,” Wash grinned as he pocketed the money. “Who is de couple you wants to win dis prize-dance?”
“Figger Bush an’ Sister Solly Skaggs.”
“Gosh!” Wash Jones exploded as he thrust his hand into his pocket, brought out the three dollars and handed them back to Skeeter. “I loves money but I ain’t troublin’ trouble.”
“Whut ails dem plans?” Skeeter asked, thrusting back the hand which offered him the money.
“In de fust place, Sister Solly Skaggs can’t win a prize in no kind of dance whutsoever. She cain’t dance no more dan a Mefdis meetin’-house. In de secont place it’s a little too raw fer you to be de judge of a dance an’ gib de prize to yo’ own pardner in de saloon bizzness.”
“I sees de light,” Skeeter said in a surprised tone. “I suttinly did mighty nigh slip up on dat plan. Wonder whut we kin do to he’p you earn dat money an’ still act honest?”
“Dat question is ’most too heavy fer my mind,” Wash said indifferently. “I’ll keep dis three dollars an’ let you think up yo’ own plan. Ef it don’t wuck, I’ll gib you yo’ money back.”
“Whut kind of prizes is you gwine gib, Wash?” Skeeter asked.
“Whutever kind of prizes yo............