The two old men sat down beside the table and Scootie listened for two hours to reminiscences which went back over half a century. Frequently Popsy Spout’s mind wandered, and Gaitskill gave him a gentle stimulant of liquor, as thoughtful of the darky’s waning strength as a courtier would be of the comfort of a king.
“How old are you now, Popsy?” Gaitskill smiled, after they had talked of old times.
“I’s sebenty year old—gwine on a hundred.”
“Do you really expect to live that long?” Gaitskill asked.
“Yes, suh, ef de white folks takes good keer of me,” Popsy answered.
He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a bulky package, tied up with many pieces of many-colored string.
“Dat’s my money, Marse Tommy. Please unwrop it an’ count it out loud fer me.”
Gaitskill poured the currency and coins upon the table and with a money-handler’s expert ease, he counted it aloud, announcing the total in about a minute:
“One thousand dollars!”
Scootie Tandy gasped like a woman who had been under water for about five minutes and had just come up, but neither of the men noticed her.