He rose and walked to the window. He looked out for a moment, then turned and handed Popsy the card on which he had written a few minutes before.
“I’ll see you often, Popsy,” he said. “Your old cabin is still at the foot of the hill by the old spring. It’s unoccupied—move in as soon as you please.”
“Whut is dis, Marse Tommy?” Popsy asked, as he looked curiously at the folded paper.
“It’s an order on my store for food,” Gaitskill said. “You can draw some groceries every Saturday night. That’s part of the interest per annum, you know.”
“Bless Gawd!” Popsy Spout quacked. “Ten dollars a month wages an’ reg’lar rations eve’y Saddy night! You shore is a noble white man, Marse Tommy! Come on, Scootie. Us’ll git gwine befo’ we gits happy an’ gits to shoutin’ an’ bust up all de furnisher in dis white man’s bank!”
“My Lawd, Figger Bush!” Skeeter Butts exclaimed, as his friend entered the Hen-Scratch saloon. “You look like a skint mule.”
“I done disguised myse’f!” Figger grinned as he took off his battered wool hat.
Figger’s famous shoe-brush mustache was gone, and his head was shaved until it was as smooth and slick as a black piano key.
“Whut you did yo’se’f so funny fer?” Skeeter demanded, as Figger smiled and revealed a row of teeth like new tombstones.