There was silence for quite a while. Then Skeeter asked:
“Is de Hen-Scratch pretty much busted up, Little Bit?”
“Naw. ’Tain’t hurt any. I nailed de legs on de tables an’ patched up de broke chairs an’ us is jes’ as good off as ever.”
Skeeter glanced toward his automobile and rose to his feet.
“I’s gwine back to town, niggers!” he announced. “You-all kin foller. De fust drink in de Hen-Scratch is a free-fer-all on me!”
“But listen, fellers,” Skeeter said earnestly. “From dis time on, as fer as I’m concerned, pol’tics is nix!”
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There were two men in Tickfall to whom everybody came with their troubles—Vinegar Atts, pastor of the Shoofly church, and Skeeter Butts, proprietor of the Hen-Scratch saloon. Both were reputed among their fellows to be wise in all human experience and equal to every emergency of life upon the earth.
Generally a man in trouble went first to Vinegar Atts, after which he poured his tale into the ear of Skeeter Butts. Each of these modern solons gave the troubled one some expert advice; then the preacher and the barkeeper got together and held a consultation, in which, as in a consultation of physicians, the diagnosis of each was confirmed, but the treatment was changed.
This time it was Shin Bone in trouble. Shin was the proprietor of a hot-cat eating-house, which made him and his wife very popular in the community, for there seems to be a natural affinity between a colored person and a piece of fried catfish.
“Whut ails yo’ mind, Shin?” Vinegar asked as Shin sat down on the cabin porch, dropping his old wool hat at his feet.
“I’s in deep troubles,” Shin said sorrowfully.
“A nigger’s trouble is like de rainbow—’tain’t got no end,” Vinegar philosophized. “But I don’t turn no nigger friend down because his troubles won’t terminate. I’s willin’ to he’p you fer any amount up to one dollar.”
“’Tain’t money troubles,” Shin said. “My bizzness is doin’ fine, but I ain’t gittin’ along so powerful good in my fambly.”
“You ain’t got no fambly, excusin’ Whiffle an’ yo’ baby,” Vinegar observed.
“De baby is all right,” Shin explained; “but Whiffle ain’t doin’ so well.”
Vinegar sat for a while in an expectant attitude, waiting for Shin to go on with the narration; but Shin found it hard to tell what he had come to say. He made several abortive efforts to get his mouth to going which got no further than a wretched silence and made him look like an idiot.