Popsy Spout rose to his feet and bowed like some aged patriarch standing in the presence of a king. His high, quavering voice sobbed like the wailing of a child: “Marse Tommy, de Gaitskill fambly is de top of de heap fer kindness an’ goodness to dis pore ole nigger!” He sank back into his chair, wiping the tears from his eyes. “I guess so,” Gaitskill said, and his voice was so soft that each word was like a caress. “We all remember Henry.” “Dat’s so, suh,” Popsy said, suddenly straightening his bent and quivering shoulders. “Marse Jimmy is told me frequent ’bout you an’ him gwine up dar an’ findin’ Hinry under dat sycamo’ tree whar I buried him at. I’s glad you fotch him back home an’ buried him wid his own folks.” “Yes, we’ll walk out to his grave together some day,” Gaitskill murmured. He rose and walked to the window. He looked out for a moment, then turned and handed Popsy the card on which he had written a few minutes before. “I’ll see you often, Popsy,” he said. “Your old cabin is still at the foot of the hill by the old spring. It’s unoccupied--move in as soon as you please.” “Whut is dis, Marse Tommy?” Popsy asked, as he looked curiously at the folded paper. “It’s an order on my store for food,” Gaitskill said. “You can draw some groceries every Saturday night. That’s part of the interest per annum, you know.” “Bless Gawd!” Popsy Spout quacked. “Ten dollars a month wages an’ reg’lar rations eve’y Saddy night! You shore is a noble white man, Marse Tommy! Come on, Scootie. Us’ll git gwine befo’ we gits happy an’ gits to shoutin’ an’ bust up all de furnisher in dis white man’s bank!” * * * * * “My Lawd, Figger Bush!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, as his friend entered the Hen-Scratch saloon. “You look like a skint mule.” “I done disguised myse’f!” Figger grinned as he took off his battered wool hat. Figger’s famous shoe-brush mustache was gone, and his head was shaved until it was as smooth and slick as a black piano key. “Whut you did yo’se’f so funny fer?” Skeeter demanded, as Figger smiled and revealed a row of teeth like new tombstones. “I decided to stay in town an’ be a corp’,” Figger explained, “so I had myse’f fixed up so dat not even my widder would know me.” “Is you seed Popsy yit?” Skeeter asked. “Yep. I hid behime de cornder of de deppo when de train trundled in, an’ Popsy dismounted off. Scootie cried an’ tuck on consid’able, an’ I wus plum’ satisfied wid de results.” “Did Popsy ’pear much broke up?” Skeeter inquired. “I couldn’t tell ’bout dat,” Figger chuckled. “Scootie tuck him to her cabin fer dinner an’ I seed ’em walkin’ aroun’ town--I s’pose dey is huntin’ fer my grave.” “How do bein’ a corp’ feel like--so fur?” Skeeter snickered.