Read Ebook: E. K. Means Is This a Title? It Is Not. It Is the Name of a Writer of Negro Stories Who Has Made Himself So Completely the Writer of Negro Stories That His Book Needs No Title by Means E K Eldred Kurtz Kemble E W Edward Windsor Illustrator

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Ebook has 3321 lines and 90210 words, and 67 pages

Skeeter handed the letter back with a look of deep sympathy and pity.

"Bad luck, Figger," Vinegar Atts bellowed. "You cain't mo' dan half suppote yo'se'f, an' now you done got a ready-made gran'pap to suppote. A nigger kin git mighty ole an' deef, but he always hears de dinner-horn."

"Dat's right," Figger wailed. "Whut muss I do?"

"Don't start squealin' like a pig kotch in a gap," Skeeter snapped, as he passed around a box of cigarettes. "Smoke one of dese an' ease down yo' mind a little."

"Whut muss I do?" Figger wailed again.

"Vinegar, you ax 'terrogations while I medjertates," Skeeter proposed, as he leaned his chair back against the tree.

"When did you perceive dis here Popsy las', Figger?" Vinegar inquired.

"More'n twenty year ago."

"Whut do he look like?"

"He looks like a black nigger. I s'pose he's bleached out some in de las' twenty year."

"Is you ever heard any word from him befo'?"

"Naw, suh. Word ain't been sont."

"How do Popsy know you is still livin'?" Vinegar inquired.

"Huh!" Skeeter Butts grunted, as he suddenly sat up and slapped his hand upon his knee. "Dat's de very idear I needs!"

"Whut?" Vinegar asked.

"Figger Bush will be dead when Popsy comes," Skeeter snickered. "Dead an' buried!"

"Not ef I kin he'p it!" Figger announced, as he rose to his feet with a frightened air. "You got to ketch a nigger fust befo' you kin dead an' bury him."

"Set down, Figger!" Skeeter exclaimed. "Yo' gran'pap on yo' mammy's side didn't inherit you no brains! Dis here is a good plan to git you out of trouble."

"Tell it to me slow," Figger begged, as he resumed his seat on the ground. "I don't favor no plan havin' a dead Figger Bush in it."

"Listen, Figger!" Skeeter urged. "I wants you to pick out a nice-lookin' nigger gal whut could play like she wus yo' widder."

"Suttinly," Figger grinned, beginning to see the light. "Scootie Tandy could play widder. She's been one about two year--all de nigger mens run after her tryin' to pussuade her to fergit her spite an' marry agin. I could git her to play widder."

"Dat'll put an eend to yo' mis'ry," Skeeter cackled. "Go tell Scootie all yo' trouble, ax Scootie to meet de train dat Popsy comes on, an' bust de sad news to him dat you is dead an' buried!"

"Mebbe Popsy won't b'lieve her," Figger objected.

"Me an' Vinegar will back her up in dat tale," Skeeter assured him. "De revun elder won't mind stretchin' de blanket a little fer de sake of savin' a friend. Ain't dat so, Revun?"

"Dat's so!" Vinegar declared. "My life job an' my callin' is savin' niggers!"

"Whar muss I git to while I'm bein' dead?" Figger inquired.

"Go fishin'," Skeeter grinned. "Fishin' is de best spote on yearth fer de livin' an' de dead!"

"How long am I got to stay dead?" Figger asked.

"When de ole man Popsy hears tell dat you is gone hence an' ain't no mo,' he'll take his foot in his hand an' ramble back to Yalabam'," Vinegar rumbled. "Dat'll be yo' sing to come fo'th from de dead!"

Figger put on his battered hat and stood up. He asked pleadingly:

"Couldn't you loant a dead man half a dollar, Skeeter?"

"Whut you want wid it?" Skeeter snapped.

"I figger dat a real live corp' oughter git a hair-cut an' a shave!" Figger chuckled.

"Dat's right," Skeeter laughed, as he handed out the money. "You scoot over an' see Scootie right now!"

Scootie Tandy was a fat, good-natured young woman, who wore red head-rags, wrapped up her kinky hair with strings to give it a better kink, and had no higher object in life than to be regular at her meals.

She had worn deep mourning for over a year for a worthless husband whose death had been advantageous to her in that it gave her an excuse for doing even less work than she had done when he was living.

"It 'pears like I ain't been well an' strong sence Jim died an' lef' me to 'tend to eve'ything," she whined at the kitchen doors of the white people, to aid her plea for food and old clothes.

Figger believed he was in love with Scootie, and Scootie made eyes at him, but Skeeter said they were not thinking about marrying. He declared they were merely watching each other to see which could live longest without work and without landing in jail for vagrancy.

"Scootie," Figger began, "you don't mind playin' a widder, does you?"

"Naw," Scootie told him. "Men is a heap mo' int'rusted in deir minds 'bout widders dan dey is 'bout gals, pervidin' ef de widders ain't got no nigger chillun crawlin' on de cabin flo'."

"Would you mind bein' my widder?" Figger inquired hesitatingly.

"I'd like it," Scootie laughed. "Is you aimin' to die real soon?"

"I passes off powerful soon," Figger grinned.

Then Figger told her of his troubles, and explained what he wanted her to do.

"My ole gran'pap won't hab no easy job attachin' hisse'f onto me," Figger announced in conclusion. "Dis here corp' is gwine keep movin' his remainders somewhar else."

"Whut train is Popsy comin' on?" Scootie asked.

"He'll be here on de dinner-time train, I think," Figger replied. "You go down an' meet dat train, an' ef he comes you pass him back onto de caboose an' tell him to keep trabbelin'."

"When muss I tell him you died?" Scootie asked.

"Gwine on a year!" Figger suggested.

"Whut did you die of?"

"Two buckles on de lungs," Figger told her.

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