On his head was a stove-pipe hat, bell-shaped, the nap long since thrown off like an outworn garment, and the top of the hat was as red as a brick from exposure to the weather. An old, faded, threadbare and patched Prince Albert coat swathed his emaciated form like a bath-robe.
Instantly Scootie knew that this man belonged to that vanishing race of negroes who were the glory and the pride of the South in the ante-bellum days. They cling like vines around the old homesteads, cared for and protected by men who were once their white masters, and when they die, more white people attend their funerals than members of their own race.
Only one thing denoted that age had left a blight upon the dignified form of Popsy Spout, and that mark was in his eyes: the vacant, age-dimmed stare of second childhood, indicating that reason no longer sat regnant upon the crystal throne of the intellect, looking out of the windows of the soul.
“I’s powerful glad to meet a young gal like you, honey,” he said in the high falsetto of old age. “Figger is missed meetin’ me some way. He always wus a mos’ onreliable piccaninny. I’s had a long trip. My name is Popsy Spout.”
This was Scootie’s cue to turn on the water-works. She brought out her black-bordered handkerchief and began to weep.
“I wus lookin’ fer you, Popsy,” she sobbed. “Poor Figger Bush is dead an’ I’s his widder!”
“How’s dat—which?” the old man quavered.
“Dead! Plum’ dead—dead an’ buried!” Scootie wailed.
“Did he die layin’ down?” the old man asked.
“Yes, suh. He died nachel.”