“Dat’s a picture of Figger, Popsy!” Scootie exclaimed, turning it so he could see the face.
“Figger who?” Popsy inquired.
“Figger Bush, Popsy,” Scootie told him in a patient tone. “Yo’ little Figger—my dead husbunt—don’t you remember Figger!”
“Is dat so?” the old man asked in uncertain tones. He held the card up and looked at the photograph for a long time.
“Whut you think about him, Popsy?” Scootie asked.
“Dat dead nigger’s face an’ head shore growed strong on hair an’ whiskers,” Popsy quavered, as he laid the photograph in the crown of his upturned stove-pipe hat, “like a damp marsh—don’t grow nothin’ but rank grass!”
“Dat was de way Figger wus,” Scootie laughed. “His head wus shore kinder soft an’ oozy.”
“When is we gwine git our dinner, Scootie?” the old man demanded.
“Right now!” Scootie told him.
“All right!” Popsy said, as he leaned back in his chair. “You call me when she’s ready. Feed me chicken an’ hot biskits an’ ice-water—lemme taper off wid a dram an’ a leetle nap—den I want you to lead me to de bank whar Marse Tommy Gaitskill stays at. Lawd! Lawd! I ain’t sot my eyes on little Tommy fer fifty year!”