“Yep. A driver on de ice-wagon is courtin’ me servigerous an’ he slips me a free chunk eve’y day.”
“Dat’s good sense,” Popsy told her. “Is you got any objections to my chawin’ all de eatin’ terbacker I wants to?”
“Naw, suh,” Scootie giggled. “Figger chawed.”
“Does you maintain a jug?” Popsy wanted to know.
“I does; an’ it’s passable full, too.”
“I bet it splashed pretty low when Figger wus livin’,” Popsy bleated. “When I wus fotchin’ up dat piccaninny he jes’ nachelly graduated to’des a jug like all de buzzards in de settlemint comin’ to a mule’s fun’ral!”
“Dar’s my cabin—over yon.” Scootie pointed.
The walk had wearied the old man, and it required all of Scootie’s strength to lift him up the steps to a rocking-chair upon the porch. She brought him out a turkey-wing fan, a twist of chewing-tobacco, and a pipe which had belonged to her deceased husband. Then she thought of Figger’s photograph, and she handed that to him.
But the aged man’s mind had suddenly gone blank because of his physical weakness, exhausted by his long walk.
“Whut you gimme dis here little card fer, Scootie?” he asked perplexedly.