“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.”