Neither Skeeter nor Figger made a reply. Their air of tragedy silenced Vinegar Atts, and he crept forward on tiptoe to where the two men were sitting, smoking cigarettes and sighing. When Vinegar reached a point, where he could see the face of Figger Bush, he jumped as if he had seen a ghost. “My--good--_gosh_, Figger!” Vinegar wailed in his siren-whistle voice. “You done suicided yo’se’f! Took five days to count his money--got it in de bank fetchin’ int’rust--livin’ in his own cabin an’ drawin’ rations--an’ you is de only blood kin of Tickfall’s leadin’ nigger sitson an’ you--is--dead!” “Tell me whut to do, Revun?” Figger wailed. “I ain’t got time, Figger!” Atts bawled. “I got to tote a Christyum greetin’ an’ welcome to dat noble nigger man!” Vinegar Atts went out of the saloon with the rolling walk of a big bear. “Tell me whut to do, Skeeter!” Figger wailed. “Search me!” Skeeter exclaimed. “’Tain’t no trouble fer a nigger to die--dat comes nachel. But when a nigger tries to come to life an’ make folks b’lieve it--Lawdy!” “I’s gwine right down an’ see Popsy!” Figger announced with sudden determination. “I’ll tell him dat Scootie is been lyin’ to him all de time. I kin prove by Marse Tom an’ all de white folks dat I ain’t never been dead a-tall!” “I hopes you luck, Figger!” Skeeter exclaimed in a tone which indicated that he considered such an enterprise futile. Figger lost no time in getting to the cabin where Scootie lived. He found Popsy sitting upon the porch, smoking a corn-cob pipe which had been the property of Scootie’s deceased husband, and languidly slapping at his face with a turkey-wing fan. His stove-pipe hat rested upon the floor at his feet and contained a big red handkerchief. “Howdy, Popsy!” Figger greeted him cordially, holding out his hand. “Don’t you reckomember me?” The old man removed his pipe from his mouth, rested his turkey-wing fan upon his lap, reached for his long patriarchal staff as if he were about to rise; then he leaned back in his chair and surveyed Figger a long time. “Naw, suh, I ain’t never seed yo’ favor befo’,” he quavered. “I’s little Figger,” Figger informed him ingratiatingly. “Little Figger is dead,” Popsy answered, looking at Bush with faded eyes, in which the light of doubt and suspicion and a little fear was growing. “I lives wid little Figger’s widder.” “Dat’s a mistake, Popsy,” Figger protested. “I ain’t died yit. Scootie’s been lyin’ to you ’bout me.” The old man leaned over and fumbled in the crown of his stove-pipe hat. He brought out his big red handkerchief, and slowly unwrapped the photograph which Scootie had given him when he first entered her home, a photograph of a negro with a woolly head and a shoe-brush mustache. Handing this to Figger, he asked sharply: “Does you look like dat nigger in dat photygrapht?” “Naw, suh,” Figger replied with evident reluctance.