“Figger would shore be mighty sorry to miss yo’ visit ef he wus alive an’ knowed about it,” Scootie remarked as she led the way to her cabin.
“’Tain’t so!” Popsy snapped, as he strode along beside her, resting one hand upon her fat shoulder and the other on his staff. “Dat nigger ain’t never missed nothin’ but a good whalin’—I promised him a lickin’ twenty year ago an’ he runned away. He ain’t never come back.”
This speech had a sing-song swing to it, as if it was a complaint which he had repeated for many years whenever Figger’s name was mentioned.
“He ain’t never come back to git his wallupin’,” the old man repeated.
Scootie snickered.
“Dat sounds right!” Popsy applauded, patting the fat shoulder which supported one of his withered hands. “’Tain’t no use to shed tears over Figger. Livin’ or dead, he don’t deeserve nothin’ but a big bust-out laugh.”
“I’s glad you feels dat way about it, Popsy,” Scootie chuckled. “You shore has cheered me up some an’ eased my mind a-plenty.”
“You got any fryin’-size chickin at yo’ cabin?” Popsy asked.
“Yep. I kin cook ’em so you’ll wanter die wid a chicken bone in yo’ hand, too,” Scootie told him. “An’ as fur my hot biskits—you’ll want one of my hot biskits carved on yo’ tombstone!”
“Kin you affode to keep ice-water?”