Figger believed he was in love with Scootie, and Scootie made eyes at him, but Skeeter said they were not thinking about marrying. He declared they were merely watching each other to see which could live longest without work and without landing in jail for vagrancy. “Scootie,” Figger began, “you don’t mind playin’ a widder, does you?” “Naw,” Scootie told him. “Men is a heap mo’ int’rusted in deir minds ’bout widders dan dey is ’bout gals, pervidin’ ef de widders ain’t got no nigger chillun crawlin’ on de cabin flo’.” “Would you mind bein’ my widder?” Figger inquired hesitatingly. “I’d like it,” Scootie laughed. “Is you aimin’ to die real soon?” “I passes off powerful soon,” Figger grinned. Then Figger told her of his troubles, and explained what he wanted her to do. “My ole gran’pap won’t hab no easy job attachin’ hisse’f onto me,” Figger announced in conclusion. “Dis here corp’ is gwine keep movin’ his remainders somewhar else.” “Whut train is Popsy comin’ on?” Scootie asked. “He’ll be here on de dinner-time train, I think,” Figger replied. “You go down an’ meet dat train, an’ ef he comes you pass him back onto de caboose an’ tell him to keep trabbelin’.” “When muss I tell him you died?” Scootie asked. “Gwine on a year!” Figger suggested. “Whut did you die of?” “Two buckles on de lungs,” Figger told her. “Wus you sick very long?” Scootie asked. “Yes’m. Tell him I wus feelin’ feeble an’ not able to wuck none fer about fo’teen year, which is how come I ain’t leave no property,” Figger declared. “Ain’t you got no picture of yo’se’f fer me to set on de mantelpiece an’ cry at?” Scootie asked. “Suttinly,” Figger said, as he slipped his hand into his coat-pocket and brought out a cheap photograph. “Dis am de best koodak I’m ever had took--it shows off my mustache so good! Don’t dem lip-whiskers look nachel?” “Dey shore do sot off yo’ face,” Scootie replied, as she studied the photograph and considered all the information Figger had given her. Finally Scootie asked: “S’pose Popsy don’t b’lieve all dese tales?” “’Tain’t no danger,” Figger answered. “I’ll make myse’f absent, an’ Skeeter an’ Vinegar will back you up.” “All right, Figger,” Scootie grinned. “I’ll gib you a lift-out. I don’t mind succulatin’ de repote dat you is dead; some folks will be dum glad to hear it!” “Bein’ dead ain’t such awful bad luck,” Figger laughed. “I done promise de white folks to do about fawty jobs of wuck, an’ dem whites keeps me a dodgin’ like a bumpin’-bug. Furdermo’, I owes a heap money in dis here town whut I don’t never expeck to pay back, an’ my tongue gits dry tellin’ how soon I hopes to wuck an’ make some cash money. Bless Gawd, dead niggers like me cain’t wuck an’ cain’t pay--dey got to charge all my debts to de dust an’ let de rain settle ’em!” “My stomick tells me dat de dinner-time train is mighty nigh here, Figger,” Scootie said. “You better git away an’ let me dress up accawdin’ to dis here sad succumstance.”