“How’s dat--which?” the old man quavered. “Dead! Plum’ dead--dead an’ buried!” Scootie wailed. “Did he die layin’ down?” the old man asked. “Yes, suh. He died nachel.” “Huh!” the old man snorted. “Dat suttinly is strange. I never predick no sech come-out fer Figger--how come de white folks didn’t shoot him or hang him? He shore deeserved it!” “Boo-hoo!” Scootie wailed. “Aw, shut up!” the old man snapped, in high, shrill tones. “Figger didn’t never amount to nothin’ nohow. I know it’s all fer de best, an’ ef you had de sense Gawd gibs to a crazy geese, you’d be dum glad he’s a deader!” “Mebbe so, suh,” Scootie mourned, “but I shore miss him a-plenty.” “Of co’se!” Popsy exploded. “You miss de stomick-ache, too, but ’tain’t resomble to howl because you ain’t got it. It’s proper to miss pestications but ’tain’t good sense to mourn deir loss. How long is Figger been dead?” “’Bout a year,” Scootie sobbed. “By jacks!” Popsy snorted. “Been dead a year an’ here you is all blacked up in mournin’ like a bucket of tar. Shut up! Whut you so crazy ’bout a dead nigger fer?” Thus importuned, Scootie saw that she was wasting her tears on Figger as far as Popsy was concerned. “Whar is you gwine now?” Scootie inquired in a voice which showed that she had found comfort. “I’s aimin’ to ooze along over to yo’ house an’ git my dinner,” Popsy told her. “Which way does we start?” “Figger would shore be mighty sorry to miss yo’ visit ef he wus alive an’ knowed about it,” Scootie remarked as she led the way to her cabin. “’Tain’t so!” Popsy snapped, as he strode along beside her, resting one hand upon her fat shoulder and the other on his staff. “Dat nigger ain’t never missed nothin’ but a good whalin’--I promised him a lickin’ twenty year ago an’ he runned away. He ain’t never come back.” This speech had a sing-song swing to it, as if it was a complaint which he had repeated for many years whenever Figger’s name was mentioned. “He ain’t never come back to git his wallupin’,” the old man repeated. Scootie snickered. “Dat sounds right!” Popsy applauded, patting the fat shoulder which supported one of his withered hands. “’Tain’t no use to shed tears over Figger. Livin’ or dead, he don’t deeserve nothin’ but a big bust-out laugh.” “I’s glad you feels dat way about it, Popsy,” Scootie chuckled. “You shore has cheered me up some an’ eased my mind a-plenty.” “You got any fryin’-size chickin at yo’ cabin?” Popsy asked. “Yep. I kin cook ’em so you’ll wanter die wid a chicken bone in yo’ hand, too,” Scootie told him. “An’ as fur my hot biskits--you’ll want one of my hot biskits carved on yo’ tombstone!” “Kin you affode to keep ice-water?” “Yep. A driver on de ice-wagon is courtin’ me servigerous an’ he slips me a free chunk eve’y day.” “Dat’s good sense,” Popsy told her. “Is you got any objections to my chawin’ all de eatin’ terbacker I wants to?” “Naw, suh,” Scootie giggled. “Figger chawed.” “Does you maintain a jug?” Popsy wanted to know.