The old man stood up in perplexity. His fuddled brain could not grasp the reason for this silence and loneliness. He climbed feebly, with the aid of his staff, up the stone steps, and pounded loudly upon the crumbling floor of the porch. “Oh, Ca’lline! Whar in dumnation is you gone at?” He entered the room where Scootie had prepared his bed with the idea that he might want to lie down and rest after his trip to the cabin, and he took his seat in the comfortable rocking-chair, placing his stove-pipe hat beside him on the floor. “Ca’lline!” he wailed. There was no answer to his call. The fire of exasperation flamed in the ancient man’s withered frame, and he manifested his annoyance by kicking his beloved stove-pipe hat across the room. “Dag-gone de dag-gone day whut fotch me de dag-gone luck of totin’ dat dag-gone fat nigger gal to my cabin!” he wailed. “_Ca’lline!_ Whar in dumnation is you an’ dem three nigger brats?” He leaned back, resting his shaking, palsied head wearily against the chair. “Dem chillun take atter deir maw,” he commented. “Dey’s gad-arounders!” From the top of the big pecan tree a mocking-bird broke forth in delirious music. The loud, clear notes, imitating every bird which roamed the woods, echoed back from the woods and the hillside, and broke in jewels of melody around the old log cabin. The old man listened, sighed gratefully, and smiled. “Dat’s one of dem wuthless, no ’count piccaninnies a-comin’ now,” he muttered. “Dem chillun got deir whistlin’ gift from deir paw. I could whistle jes’ like dat befo’ I loss all de toofs outen my head.” Instantly a footstep sounded in the rear of the house, and the door opened. Figger Bush entered the room and stopped near the door, looking at Popsy Spout with eyes as wistful as the eyes of a hound. “Whar de debbil is you been at, Figger?” the old man howled. “I been callin’ you all de mawnin’!” “I been settin’ aroun’,” Figger muttered. “I’s tired!” “By dam’!” the old man snorted. “Mebbe yo’ legs is a little feeble an’ tired, but yo’ stomick don’t never weary none. Whut you been doin’ in dat kitchen--eatin’ or drinkin’?” “Nothin’,” Figger mumbled. “Ef you been drinkin’ dat dram agin, I’ll find out about it!” Popsy ranted in the falsetto of senility. “Licker talks mighty loud when it gits loose from de jug, an’ de fust time you whoops a yell I’ll wallop yo’ hide wid dis stick.” “Yes, suh,” Figger murmured, rubbing his shaved head. “Whar is yo’ hair gone at?” Popsy howled, glaring at Figger’s bald pate. “Ole Mis’ Mildred cut it off!” Figger prevaricated with a snicker. “She say she wanted to sot a hin an’ needed my wool to make a nest.” “Huh!” the old man snorted in disgust. “It’s a pity she didn’t take one of dese here wooden teethpicks an’ beat yo’ brains out while she wus at it!” Figger turned and started to go out. “Hey, Figger!” Popsy squalled. “Whut?” Figger asked. “You stay aroun’ dis cabin so you kin wait on me!” “Yes, suh,” Figger grinned.