“Dis is whar I disappears complete, Scootie,” Figger grinned, as he stepped off the porch. “I hope you won’t slight yo’ mournin’ fer me atter I’m gone.”
Then Scootie prepared herself to meet the train—a black dress, black gloves, a long black veil over a purple and yellow hat with a poll-parrot on it, a palm-leaf fan, the edge appropriately encircled with black braid, and a white handkerchief with a broad border. She looked at herself in the mirror and smiled with satisfaction.
“I’s gwine wear mournin’ all my life,” she announced to herself. “It makes my complexion mo’ fair.”
When the train pulled into the station, Scootie was standing near the negro coach, looking for a man who resembled Figger’s description of Popsy Spout as he remembered his grandfather after twenty years. Only one negro passenger got off, and Scootie merely glanced at him and waited for some one else.
When the train pulled out, Scootie turned, and the negro passenger was standing close beside her on the platform.
“Is you lookin’ fer somebody?” Scootie asked. “I knows eve’ybody in dis town.”
Then Scootie got a surprise.
“Yes’m,” the man answered, in a weak, tired voice. “I wus expeckin’ Figger Bush.”
Scootie reeled back and glared at the speaker with popping eyeballs.
He stood before her, over six feet tall and as straight as an Indian. His face was as black as new tar and was seamed by a thousand tiny wrinkles, written all over with the literature of life and experience. His long hair was as white as milk, and his two wrinkled and withered hands rested upon a patriarchal staff nearly as tall as himself.