“Me an’ Brudder Sudds is been talkin’ about it,” Vinegar went on, “an’ Sudds specify dat he don’t think he had a fair show. He wants to hab one mo’ try-on.”
“What do you folks want to do?” Shirley asked curiously.
“Sudds, he specify dat he figgers dat a make-b’lieve weddin’ betwix’ him an’ dat N’Awleens gal would be jes’ de right do,” Vinegar proposed.
“Who’ll marry ’em?” Rouke asked, watching the smoke curl up from the end of his cigar.
“Me!” Vinegar proclaimed in an explosive tone. “Dat is my real bizzness. I marrifies all de niggers.”
“I see,” Shirley grinned. “You want to get into the picture yourself!”
“Yes, suh, I’ll take a real good picture. I ain’t got no whiskers an’ my head is bald--dar ain’t nothin’ to hide me.”
“All right,” Rouke laughed. “Get all the niggers together, and I’ll try it again. Maybe you folks will get used to the camera after a while, and I can put on my play. Where is that little wench named Lulu----”
“Laller?” Vinegar corrected him. “She wucks fer Sheriff John Flournoy. I’ll git her for you.”
“Get busy, then,” Rouke snapped, his mind beginning to work like a dynamo. “Get all the niggers together at the Shoofly church at twelve o’clock. Tell that Lulu--Laller, to dress herself up for a wedding. Hunt up that Skoot Butts, and tell him to get ready to act the part of the rejected suitor--he was certainly a dandy in that rôle yesterday! Hunt up that Diamond Hitch, and tell him he is to be the father of Lalla, and give her away at the wedding. That’s all!”
Vinegar knew that he was dismissed, but he still lingered.
“Well?” Rouke demanded sharply, “what’s blocking the wheels of progress now?”
“Boss,” Vinegar said bashfully “you an’ me made a trade--an’ I’s wucked powerful hard--an’ ’pears to me like a few loose money----”
“Sure!” Rouke said, reaching into his pocket. “I presume you and Sudds have earned five dollars each, but danged if I know what you did for it!”
The two delighted darkies snatched the money, crammed it into their pockets, and went stamping down the steps.
“Elder, you go hunt up dem niggers Mr. Rouke tole you ’bout, an’ I’ll rack over to de cotehouse an’ git dem license!”
“Dat’s right,” Vinegar boomed. “Dat white man done plum’ fergot dem cotehouse papers, an’ dis is gwine be a real cotehouse wedding. I fetches ’em off fine, Sudds. You oughter see me git active in a mattermony pufformunce!”
