POPSY SPOUT About the time the boys had climbed into Mustard’s wagon in front of the saloon, Popsy Spout had entered the door of the eating-house and stood there with all the hesitancy of imbecility. He was over six feet tall and as straight as an Indian. His face was as black as tar, and was seamed with a thousand tiny wrinkles. His long hair was as white as milk, and his two wrinkled and withered hands rested like an eagle’s talons upon a patriarchal staff nearly as tall as himself. On his head was a stove-pipe hat, bell-shaped, the nap long since worn off and the top of the hat stained a brick-red by exposure to the weather. An old, faded, threadbare and patched sack coat swathed his emaciated form like a bobtailed bath-robe. The greatest blight which old age had left upon his dignified form was in his eyes: the vacant, age-dimmed stare of second childhood, denoting that reason no longer sat regnant upon the crystal throne of the intellect. There were many tables in the eating-house, but Popsy could not command his mind and his judgment to the point of deciding which table he would choose or in which chair he would seat himself. Shin Bone, from the rear of his restaurant, looked up and gave a grunt of disgust. “Dar’s dat ole fool come back agin,” he growled. “Ef you’d set him in one of dese here revolver chairs, he wouldn’t hab sense enough to turn around in it. I reckon I’ll hab to go an’ sell him a plate of soup.” “Mawnin’, Popsy,” he said cordially, as he walked to the door where the old man stood. Shin reserved a private opinion of all his patrons, but outwardly he was very courteous to all of them, for very good business reasons. “Mawnin’, Shinny,” Popsy said with a sighing respiration. “I wus jes’ tryin’ to reckoleck whut I come in dis place fur an’ whar must I set down at.” “I reckin you better set down up close to de kitchen, whar you kin smell de vittles. Dat’ll git you more fer yo’ money,” Shin snickered. “I reckin you is hankerin’ atter a bowl of soup, ain’t you?” “I b’lieve dat wuz whut I come in dis place fer. I’s gittin’ powerful fergitful as de days goes by.” “You comes in here mighty nigh eve’y day fer a bowl of soup,” Shin told him. “Is you fergot dat fack?” “Is dat possible?” Popsy exclaimed. “I muss be spendin’ my money too free.” “You needn’t let dat worry yo’ mind,” Shin replied, as he motioned to a negro waitress to bring the soup. “You ain’t got nobody to suppote but yo’ own self.” “Figger Bush lives wid me,” Popsy growled. “He oughter he’p suppote me some, but he won’t do it. He wuz always a most onreliable pickaninny, an’ all de good I ever got out of him I had to beat out wid a stick.” “Figger’s wife oughter git some wuck out of him,” Shin laughed.