“Huh!” the old man snorted. “Dat suttinly is strange. I never predick no sech come-out fer Figger—how come de white folks didn’t shoot him or hang him? He shore deeserved it!”
“Boo-hoo!” Scootie wailed.
“Aw, shut up!” the old man snapped, in high, shrill tones. “Figger didn’t never amount to nothin’ nohow. I know it’s all fer de best, an’ ef you had de sense Gawd gibs to a crazy geese, you’d be dum glad he’s a deader!”
“Mebbe so, suh,” Scootie mourned, “but I shore miss him a-plenty.”
“Of co’se!” Popsy exploded. “You miss de stomick-ache, too, but ’tain’t resomble to howl because you ain’t got it. It’s proper to miss pestications but ’tain’t good sense to mourn deir loss. How long is Figger been dead?”
“’Bout a year,” Scootie sobbed.
“By jacks!” Popsy snorted. “Been dead a year an’ here you is all blacked up in mournin’ like a bucket of tar. Shut up! Whut you so crazy ’bout a dead nigger fer?”
Thus importuned, Scootie saw that she was wasting her tears on Figger as far as Popsy was concerned.
“Whar is you gwine now?” Scootie inquired in a voice which showed that she had found comfort.
“I’s aimin’ to ooze along over to yo’ house an’ git my dinner,” Popsy told her. “Which way does we start?”