Figger sighed deeply, then executed a feeble grin. “A nigger man is comin’ to see me, Skeeter,” he explained, “an’ I don’t need him.” “Who’s a-comin’?” “Popsy Spout.” “Whar’s he been at?” Vinegar asked. “Yallerbam’,” Figger told him. There was a moment of silence while the two waited for Figger to tell them all about it. But if Figger ever did anything he had to be pushed along. “I don’t see nothin’ so powerful bad in dat,” Skeeter snapped, impatient at the delay. “Popsy Spout is comin’ from Yalabama--well?” “It’s dis way,” Figger explained, slapping at the ground with his battered wool hat to give emphasis to his speech. “Popsy Spout is my gran’pap on my mammy’s side. My mammy died soon an’ Popsy raised me up. He always toted a big hick’ry cane an’ he raised me pretty frequent. One day he promise me a whalin’ an’ I snooped ten dollars outen his money-bag an’ skunt out fer Tickfall. Dat was twenty year ago.” “You reckin’ Popsy is comin’ to colleck up?” Skeeter snickered. “Naw, suh. I figger dat Popsy is gittin’ ole an’ lonesome an’ tuck up a notion to come an’ pay me a little visit.” “How long will he stay on?” Skeeter asked. “I kinder think he thinks he’ll stay on till he dies,” Figger announced in tragic tones, as he produced a soiled letter and held it out to Skeeter. “Read dis, an’ see kin you find any yuther hopes in whut he do say.” Skeeter took the letter out of the envelope and read it aloud, giving the peculiar African pronunciation to the words as he spoke them: “DEAR FIGGER: Dis letter will kotch you jes’ befo’ I gits offen de train at Tickfall. I wus raised an’ bawn in de Little Mocassin Swamp, an’ I wants to come home an’ live wid you till I die. I needs somebody of my kinnery aroun’ so I won’t git so lonesome. Good-by. I’m comin’ powerful soon. POPSY SPOUT.” Skeeter handed the letter back with a look of deep sympathy and pity. “Bad luck, Figger,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “You cain’t mo’ dan half suppote yo’se’f, an’ now you done got a ready-made gran’pap to suppote. A nigger kin git mighty ole an’ deef, but he always hears de dinner-horn.” “Dat’s right,” Figger wailed. “Whut muss I do?” “Don’t start squealin’ like a pig kotch in a gap,” Skeeter snapped, as he passed around a box of cigarettes. “Smoke one of dese an’ ease down yo’ mind a little.” “Whut muss I do?” Figger wailed again. “Vinegar, you ax ’terrogations while I medjertates,” Skeeter proposed, as he leaned his chair back against the tree. “When did you perceive dis here Popsy las’, Figger?” Vinegar inquired. “More’n twenty year ago.” “Whut do he look like?” “He looks like a black nigger. I s’pose he’s bleached out some in de las’ twenty year.” “Is you ever heard any word from him befo’?” “Naw, suh. Word ain’t been sont.” “How do Popsy know you is still livin’?” Vinegar inquired. “Huh!” Skeeter Butts grunted, as he suddenly sat up and slapped his hand upon his knee. “Dat’s de very idear I needs!” “Whut?” Vinegar asked.