"What urrant's dat?" inquired the widow.

"Mighty quare urrant," replied Mrs. Morton. "Mighty quare urrant,
honey. You see back yon'eh dat new smallpox flag?"

"Sho."

"Well ma'am, night fo' las', dat Joe Cribbins, dat one-eye nigger what
sell de policy tickets, an's done be'n havin' de smallpox, he crope
out de back way, when's de gyahd weren't lookin', an', my Lawd, ef dey
ain't ketch him down in dat Dago cellar, tryin' sell dem Dagoes policy
tickets! Yahah, honey!" Mrs. Morton threw back her head to
laugh. "Ain't dat de beatenest nigger, dat one-eyed Joe?"

"What den, Miz Mo'ton?" pursued the listener.

"Den dey quahumteem dem Dagoes; sot a gyahd dah: you kin see him
settin' out dah now. Well ma'am, 'cordin' to dat gyahd, one er dem
Dagoes like ter go inter fits all day yas'day. Dat man hatter go in
an' quiet him down ev'y few minute'. Seem 't he boun' sen' a message
an' cain't git no one to ca'y it fer him. De gyahd, he cain't go; he
willin' sen' de message, but cain't git nobody come nigh enough de
place fer to tell 'em what it is. 'Sides, it 'leckshum-day, an' mos'
folks hangin' 'roun' de polls. Well ma'am, dis aft'noon, I so'nter'n
by, an' de gyahd holler out an' ask me do I want make a dollah, an' I
say I do. I ain't 'fraid no smallpox, done had it two year' ago. So I
say I take de message."

"What is it?"