“She cain’t do it! Excusin’ dat, she ain’t home right now. Dat’s how come I’s got to eat wid you,” Popsy grumbled, digging the tine of his fork into the soft pine table to accentuate his remarks, and then flourishing the fork in the air for emphasis. “Figger is de lazies’ nigger in de worl’.” Having uttered this remark, the old man leaned back in his chair and thrust the fork into his coat pocket while his aged eyes stared out of the window at nothing. Shin noted the disappearance of the fork, but did not mention it. The negro waitress appeared, placed the soup under the old man’s nose and went away. At last he glanced down. “Fer de Lawd’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Whar did dis here soup come from?” “You jes’ now ordered it,” Shin said sharply. “I had a cullud gal fotch it to you, an’ you got to pay fer it.” “I won’t pay for it ontil atter I done et it,” Popsy growled. He picked up a knife, started to dip it into the soup, found that this was the wrong tool, and thrust the knife into the pocket of his coat to keep company with the purloined fork. Shin noted the disappearance of the knife, but said nothing. He handed Popsy a pewter spoon and remarked: “You better lap it up quick, Popsy; she’ll be gittin’ cold in a minute.” “Who’ll be gittin’ cold?” Popsy asked absently. “I didn’t hear tell of no she havin’ a cold. Is she got a rigger? Dese here spring days draws out all de p’ison in de blood.” “Naw, suh. I says de soup will git cold.” “Aw,” Popsy answered, as he dipped his spoon in the liquid and sipped it. “Dis soup am pretty tol’able good. Does you chaw yo’ vittles fawty times, Shinny?” “Not de same vittles,” Shin said. “I chaws mo’ dan fawty times at a meal, I reckin.” “Marse Tom Gaitskill says dat people oughter chaw deir vittles fawty times befo’ dey swallows it.” “I’d hate to practise on a oystyer,” Shin giggled. “White folks is always talkin’ fool notions.” Shin sat by and watched the old man as he consumed the remainder of his soup in silence. He also ate some crackers, drank a cup of coffee, to all appearances unconscious that Shin sat beside him. Finally, he looked up with a slightly surprised manner and asked: “Whut did you say to me, Shinny?” “I said I’d hate to practise on oystyers.” “Practise whut on oystyers?” “Chawin’ one fawty times,” Shin explained. “My gawsh!” Popsy snorted. “Who ever heard tell of anybody in his real good sense chawin’ a raw oystyer fawty times? Is you gone crippled in yo’ head?” “Naw, suh, I——” The old man did not wait for the reply, but interrupted by rising to his feet with the intention of going out. The spoon he was holding he did not lay down upon the table, but carried it toward the door with him. “De price is fifteen cents, Popsy,” Shin reminded him, as he followed him toward the front. “Let me hold yo’ spoon while you feels fer yo’ money.” “I didn’t fotch no spoon wid me,” the old man whined, as he held it out to Shin. “Dis spoon is your’n.”