“I ain’t gwine do it!” the old man shouted irascibly. “I ain’t gwine be kotch settin’ up in a rockin’-chair in a wagon like a ole nigger woman ridin’ to a all-day nigger fun’ral wid dinner on de grounds. I’ll walk an’ tote my own carcass to dat cabin, like a man!” “Ef pore Figger wus livin’, I’d git him to hitch up de kerridge an’ drive you to de cabin,” Scootie said mischievously. “Huh!” the old man shouted. “Figger wouldn’t hab sense enough to find my ole cabin. When de good Lawd passed aroun’ brains, Figger had his head in a woodpecker’s hole lookin’ fer aigs!” Muttering to himself in sheer perversity, he pranced down the road for a hundred yards or so, then, out of sight of Scootie, he settled down to a sedate and dignified walk. In a little while he began to use his long staff, leaning heavily upon it as he climbed the long hill which led to the Gaitskill home. At the foot of the hill he passed a negro sitting disconsolately upon the end of a log. He was a scarecrow sort of a negro, with ragged, flapping clothes; a close observer might have noticed that he had recently worn a stubby, shoe-brush mustache; his head was shaved as smooth and slick as a black piano-key. “Good mawnin’,” Popsy Spout quavered. “Mawnin’, Popsy,” Figger murmured in a tragic tone--a voice from the tomb, a greeting from the dead! The old man walked on, his step feebler now, his staff serving him more and more, his progress slower. The August sun shone with scorching heat, the sunlight spraying from the leaves of the trees like water; the August breeze was like a breath from the open furnace-doors where iron is melted and flows like water; the sand of the highway was like embers scorching the feet. The old man staggered on, muttering to himself. Figger Bush arose slinkingly and walked behind Popsy at a respectful distance, like a dog which had been whipped and told not to follow. He kept close to the high weeds and the bushes which grew beside the road, so that he could hide promptly if Popsy turned and looked back. But Popsy did not look back. His age-dimmed eyes were set upon a big white house with large colonial columns which stood upon the top of the hill. Half a century had passed since he had seen this home last, and eagerness overcame his physical weakness and carried him to the hilltop where the beautiful lawn lay like a green carpet spread before the door. Popsy leaned weakly upon the gate and gazed long and earnestly at the stately old home. He assumed the attitude of one who was listening for some familiar sound, and was perplexed because he could hear nothing. Alas! Popsy was listening for footsteps that were silent and for voices which for fifty years had not been music in the porches of the ear! For a moment the old man had forgotten the years which had passed since last he saw this house, and he was listening for the voices of a young bride’s father and mother, and for the laughter and shouting of three Gaitskill boys--Tom, Jim, Henry!