“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!”
“I argufies dat wus a insult an’ a outrage!” Pap snarled. “Don’t you agree wid dem sentiments?”
“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 leader of de league. I ain’t in de Uplift bizzness. I’s in de barroom bizzness.”
“Dar’s plenty in it fer you,” Pap told him. “A presidunt is got to hab a vice-presidunt, ain’t he? I wants you to run wid me an’ be my vice-presidunt. In case I dies or gits in jail, you gits de presidunt job.”
Figger Bush drew in his breath sharply, then sat for a long time in silence, looking into the thick branches of an umbrella china-tree. Honors had been suddenly thrust upon him. Pap was old and his chance of dying was good. He was a “slick-head” negro, and his chance of getting into jail was better. It did not require much imagination for Figger Bush to see all obstacles cleared away, and behold himself as the honored president of the Uplift League.