“Hit’s bin a long time sence I bin down dar, Brer Rastus, an’ hit’ll be longer.  I done got my dose.”

“You ain’t done gone an’ unjined, is you, Brer Remus?”

“Not zackly, Brer Rastus.  I des tuck’n draw’d out.  De members ’uz a blame sight too mutuel fer ter suit my doctrines.”

“How wuz dat, Brer Remus?”

“Well, I tell you, Brer Rastus.  W’en I went ter dat chu’ch, I went des ez umbill ez de nex’ one.  I went dar fer ter sing, an’ fer ter pray, an’ fer ter wushup, an’ I mos’ giner’lly allers had a stray shin-plarster w’ich de ole ’oman say she want sont out dar ter dem cullud fokes ’cross de water.  Hit went on dis way twel bimeby, one day, de fus news I know’d der was a row got up in de amen cornder.  Brer Dick, he ’nounced dat dey wern’t nuff money in de box; an’ Brer Sim said if dey wern’t he speck Brer Dick know’d whar it disappeared ter; an’ den Brer Dick ’low’d dat he won’t stan’ no ‘probusness, an’ wid dat he haul off an’ tuck Brer Sim under de jaw—­ker blap!—­an’ den dey clinched an’ drapped on de flo’ an’ fout under de benches an’ ’mong de wimmen.

“‘Bout dat time Sis Tempy, she lipt up in de a’r, an’ sing out dat she done gone an tromple on de Ole Boy, an’ she kep’ on lippin’ up an’ slingin’ out ’er han’s twel bimeby—­blip!—­she tuck Sis Becky in de mouf, an’ den Sis Becky riz an’ fetch a grab at Sis Tempy, an’ I ‘clar’ ter grashus ef didn’t ’pear ter me like she got a poun’ er wool.  Atter dat de revivin’ sorter het up like.  Bofe un um had kin ‘mong de mo’ners, an’ ef you ever see skufflin’ an’ scramblin’ hit wuz den an’ dar.  Brer Jeems Henry, he mounted Brer Plato an’ rid ‘im over de railin’, an’ den de preacher he start down fum de pulpit, an’ des ez he wuz skippin’ onter de platform a hym’-book kotch ’im in de bur er de year, an I be bless ef it didn’t soun’ like a bung-shell’d busted.  Des den, Brer Jesse, he riz up in his seat, sorter keerless like, an’ went down inter his britches atter his razer, an’ right den I know’d sho’ nuff trubble wuz begun.  Sis Dilsey, she seed it herse’f, an’ she tuck’n let off wunner dem hallyluyah hollers, an’ den I disremember w’at come ter pass.

“I’m gittin’ sorter ole, Brer Rastus, an’ it seem like de dus’ sorter shet out de pannyrammer.  Fuddermo’, my lim’s got ter akin, mo’ speshully w’en I year Brer Sim an’ Brer Dick a snortin’ and a skufflin’ under de benches like ez dey wuz sorter makin’ der way ter my pew.  So I kinder hump myse’f an’ scramble out, and de fus man w’at I seed was a pleeceman, an’ he had a nigger ‘rested, an’ de fergiven name er dat nigger wuz Remus.”

“He didn’t ‘res’ you, did he, Brer Remus?”

“Hit’s des like I tell you, Brer Rastus, an’ I hatter git Mars John fer to go inter my bon’s fer me.  Hit ain’t no use fer ter sing out chu’ch ter me, Brer Rastus.  I done bin an’ got my dose.  W’en I goes ter war, I wanter know w’at I’m a doin’.  I don’t wanter git hemmed up ’mong no wimmen and preachers.  I wants elbow-room, an I’m bleedzd ter have it.  Des gimme elbow-room.”