“I does; an’ it’s passable full, too.” “I bet it splashed pretty low when Figger wus livin’,” Popsy bleated. “When I wus fotchin’ up dat piccaninny he jes’ nachelly graduated to’des a jug like all de buzzards in de settlemint comin’ to a mule’s fun’ral!” “Dar’s my cabin--over yon.” Scootie pointed. The walk had wearied the old man, and it required all of Scootie’s strength to lift him up the steps to a rocking-chair upon the porch. She brought him out a turkey-wing fan, a twist of chewing-tobacco, and a pipe which had belonged to her deceased husband. Then she thought of Figger’s photograph, and she handed that to him. But the aged man’s mind had suddenly gone blank because of his physical weakness, exhausted by his long walk. “Whut you gimme dis here little card fer, Scootie?” he asked perplexedly. “Dat’s a picture of Figger, Popsy!” Scootie exclaimed, turning it so he could see the face. “Figger who?” Popsy inquired. “Figger Bush, Popsy,” Scootie told him in a patient tone. “Yo’ little Figger--my dead husbunt--don’t you remember Figger!” “Is dat so?” the old man asked in uncertain tones. He held the card up and looked at the photograph for a long time. “Whut you think about him, Popsy?” Scootie asked. “Dat dead nigger’s face an’ head shore growed strong on hair an’ whiskers,” Popsy quavered, as he laid the photograph in the crown of his upturned stove-pipe hat, “like a damp marsh--don’t grow nothin’ but rank grass!” “Dat was de way Figger wus,” Scootie laughed. “His head wus shore kinder soft an’ oozy.” “When is we gwine git our dinner, Scootie?” the old man demanded. “Right now!” Scootie told him. “All right!” Popsy said, as he leaned back in his chair. “You call me when she’s ready. Feed me chicken an’ hot biskits an’ ice-water--lemme taper off wid a dram an’ a leetle nap--den I want you to lead me to de bank whar Marse Tommy Gaitskill stays at. Lawd! Lawd! I ain’t sot my eyes on little Tommy fer fifty year!” * * * * * At two o’clock that afternoon Scootie conducted Popsy Spout through the door of the Tickfall National Bank, down a corridor in the rear of the big vault, and knocked upon a door which bore in dainty gold lettering the word: “President.” In response to a voice within she opened the door and pushed Popsy Spout forward. Colonel Tom Gaitskill sat beside a table in a swivel chair, a tall, handsome man with the air of a soldier, ruddy-faced, white-haired, genial, and smiling. Gaitskill’s fine eyes took him in with a photographic glance.