“Ef us niggers keeps turnin' too many raf's loose fuh de prize-money,” he warned, “somebody's goin' to git 'spicious, an' you'll ruin a good thing.”
The Persimmon absorbed this with a far-away look in his half-closed eyes.
“It's a ticklish job,” argued Parson Ranson, “an' I wouldn't want to wuck at de debbil's task aroun' de ribber, ca'se you mout fall in, Persimmon, an' git drownded.”
“I wouldn't do sich a thing a-tall,” admitted the Persimmon, “but I jes' natchelly got to git ten dollars to he'p pay on my divo'ce.”
“I kain't see whut you want wid a divo'ce,” said Jim Pink, yawning, “when you been ma'ied three times widout any.”
“It's fuh a Christmas present,” explained the Persimmon, carelessly, “fuh th' woman I'm libin' wid now. Mahaly's a great woman fuh style. I'm goin' to divo'ce my other wives, one at a time lak my lawyer say.”
“On what grounds?” asked Peter, curiously.
“Desuhtion.”
“Desertion?”
“Uh huh; I desuhted 'em.”
Jim Pink shook his head, picked up a pebble, and began idly juggling it, making it appear double, single, treble, then single again.
“Too many divo'ces in dis country now, Persimmon,” he moralized.
