Half an hour later Skeeter and Figger met in the Hen-Scratch saloon to discuss the events of the evening. “We shore knocked de skin offen Pap Curtain’s nose to-night, Figger,” Butts exulted. “Dat’s de way so keep on. We’ll show dat ole man dat he cain’t beat us at dis game.”
“Never no more fer me, Skeeter,” Figger said earnestly. “I got to repent an’ refawm an’ dodge brickbats. Atter you dances one time wid a ole sook-cow like Solly, ’tain’t no trouble to repent an’ refawm. But I’s shore much ableeged fer dis cigareet holder. I been needin’ one fer a long time.”
“You gimme dat cigareet holder back,” Skeeter snapped. “Us kin use it fer all de yuther prizes, an’ I proposes to git my money back by smokin’ it myself.”
“I knowed you warn’t gwine be lib’ral wid yo’ gifts,” Figger said, as he reluctantly produced the holder and passed it to Skeeter. “I oughter lost dat prize befo’ I showed up here.”
“You kin git de good outen it by watchin’ me smoke it,” Skeeter snickered. “An’ ef we bust Pap’s plans about startin’ a saloon, mebbe I’ll let you smoke it a few times to keep yo’ feelin’s from gittin’ hurt.”
At that moment the door of the saloon opened and old Isaiah Gaitskill came across the room to where the two men sat at a table. Isaiah was one of the landmarks of Tickfall, withered and wrinkled and dry like the hull of a walnut, his gray hair fitting his head like a rubber cap, over eighty years of age, but as hard and active as a soldier.
“Ole fellers like you oughter be in bed, Isaiah,” Skeeter announced as he waved the visitor to a chair.
“Fellers nearly as ole as me is not only stayin’ up late but dey is figgerin’ ’bout gittin’ married,” Isaiah replied with a grin.
“Pap Curtain ain’t nigh as old as you,” Figger retorted.
“’Tain’t Pap I’s alludin’ to,” Isaiah answered. “It’s brudder Popsy Spout whut’s studyin’ mattermony.”
Many things had happened to those two young men in their variegated and adventurous careers, but nothing had ever happened to produce such a shock as Isaiah’s announcement. Figger uttered a startled exclamation, started to rise from his seat, then sank back with his chin in his collar and collapsed like a punctured tire. Skeeter Butts pawed the air in front of his face with both hands as if fighting off invisible insects; he made inarticulate noises in his throat, shut his teeth down so hard on his celluloid nickel-plated cigarette holder that he split it for two inches, and then exclaimed despairingly:
“Oh, whoosh!”
The sound was like the feeble exhaust of an automobile that is utterly worn out and broken down and never intends to be serviceable again.
“I come aroun’ to ax you-alls is Popsy still got dat thousan’ dollars in Marse Tom Gaitskill’s bank,” Isaiah proceeded, taking no notice of the terrible effect of his announcement.
“Whoosh!” Skeeter sighed again.
“I got a notion dat Popsy’s suttinly still got it,” Isaiah continued. “Dat ole monkey don’t spen’ no money—he saves it.”
“Whoosh!” Skeeter muttered.
There was a long silence, the men looking at each other without a word. After a while Isaiah began to drum on the table with his horny fingernails, and the sound was as annoying and as startling in the stillness as the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker trying to drill a hole through a tin roof. Slowly Figger recovered his power of speech. He glared at Skeeter uttering one intelligible sentence:
“You is to blame fer dis!”
And then he began to “cuss.” It was an edifying exhibition to one interested in the use of forcible words, interested in the efficiency attained through long practice and experience, and interested in knowing how copious is the English language in terms of profanity, blasphemy, and execration.
Isaiah listened, casting a glance of admiration toward Figger now and then as he heard some especially pregnant phrases of vituperation, then he said:
“Save a few cuss-words fer future use, Figger. You’ll need ’em.”
“Keep on, Figger,” Skeeter said encouragingly. “Dis here is a cussin’ case an’ you ain’t done de case justice even yit.”
“I ain’t gwine stay here an’ listen,” Isaiah snapped. “I jes’ stopped by to ax about Popsy’s finances. Ef he’s still got de dough he had when he arrived up at dis town, he’s got twicet as much as de gal he’s studin’ to marry an’ dat’ll make a good match.”
“Hol’ on, Isaiah,” Figger wailed. “Who did you say Popsy wus aimin’ to marry?”
“I ain’t specified,” Isaiah grinned, reaching for his hat and preparing to go. “But I don’t mind tellin’—it’s my stepchile by my fourth wife’s fust marriage, Mrs. Solly Skaggs!”
The exclamation which Figger uttered at this information indicated that he had exhausted all the treasuries of speech: language could go no further.
“I tole you to save some cuss-words,” Isaiah grinned.
Skeeter groaned, fanning himself with his hat.
“Dar won’t be enough room in Popsy’s little cabin fer Figger an’ his wife an’ Popsy an’ his wife,” he meditated aloud. “Solly is a cabin-full all by herse’f.”
“Popsy is shore gittin’ plenty fer his money,” Isaiah chuckled. “I’s glad she’s ended up dat way. Dat fat gal kin eat as much as fo’teen chillun an&rsq............