In Pap Curtain’s career he had driven many carriages which transported over the Parish of Tickfall the candidates for the offices within the gift of the people. He now recalled to his profit that every prospective Congressman, Governor, and Senator went from house to house, seeking out each voter, loudly enunciating their political principles, and soliciting their votes. Figger Bush, on his way home to his dinner of hot cakes and sirup, found a little group of negroes standing on a corner in Dirty-Six, with Pap Curtain in the midst. Pap gesticulated with his left hand, which held a lemon, and his harsh, snarling voice clearly enunciated the principles on which he hoped to be elected president of the Tickfall Uplift League.
Figger slipped quietly around the little group, determined to go on his way. But Pap would let no possible voter escape.
“Ain’t dat so, Brudder Figger Bush?” Pap howled.
“Whut?” Figger asked, brought to a sudden halt.
“Ain’t whut I been sayin’ true fer a fack?” Pap demanded.
“I ain’t heerd nothin’,” Figger mumbled, longing to escape.
Pap walked over and laid an impressive and detaining hand upon Figger’s shoulder. The crowd moved with Pap and enclosed him, and Figger found himself shut in on all sides.
“I been explavacatin’ dat de Uplift League ain’t been run right. Ain’t dat so?” Pap snarled.
“’Tain’t been run to suit me,” Figger murmured knowing that he could escape more easily if he agreed with Pap than would be possible if he started an argument.
“Suttin, it ain’t!” Pap howled triumphantly. “’Tain’t been run to suit nobody. De dues is too high, de members of de league is too choosy about admittin’ new members, an’ a poor an’ meek-seemin’ man ain’t got no show. Ain’t dat right?”
“Shore is,” Figger muttered, with some reluctance.
“You know how ’tis yo’ own self, Figger!” Pap howled, elated over Figger’s endorsement of his position. “I remember once you wusn’t allowed to come inside de league meetin’ because you had on shoes ’thout no socks!”
“Dat’s so,” Figger agreed.
“I argufies dat wus a insult an’ a outrage!” Pap snarled. “Don’t you agree wid dem sentiments?”
“Yes, suh.”
“I proclamates dat de members of de league oughter be allowed to dress as dey dern please,” Pap howled. “Let ’em come wid socks or widout socks—dem’s my docterines!”
A murmur of acquiescence arose from the little group, and Pap with true oratorical instinct felt that he had shot off the one big set-piece of fireworks in his display, and that he had better quit at his climax. Let it be said to his credit that he did not linger to shoot off a single lonesome skyrocket of eloquence, but closed his mouth right there, and laid hold upon Figger’s arm and led him down the street and away from the rest of the group.
“I wants you to go to my cabin wid me, Figger,” he whispered. “Us oughter git togedder an’ whup out dem ins an’ git in ourselves.”
“Scootie is expectin’ me home ’bout now,” Figger remonstrated.
“I won’t keep you long,” Pap assured him.
“Whut you think is my chance to git elected?”
“I reckin you got some show ef you kin git enough niggers to vote fer you,” Figger told him.
“It’s principles dat gits votes,” Pap proclaimed. “I’s preachin’ de only docterine whut hits a nigger right—eve’y feller do as he please!”
“Preachin’ don’t git no votes,” Figger disagreed. “Mostest votes is got by de man whut gits de mostest niggers to vote fer him and wuck fer him.”
“Dat’s why I needs you, Figger,” Pap said, as they walked up the steps and sat down on a bench on Curtain’s porch. “I wants you to come in wid me an he’p me git elected.”
“Dar ain’t nothin’ in de race fer me,” Figger declined promptly. “I don’t care who is de head lea............