“I decided to stay in town an’ be a corp’,” Figger explained, “so I had myse’f fixed up so dat not even my widder would know me.”
“Is you seed Popsy yit?” Skeeter asked.
“Yep. I hid behime de cornder of de deppo when de train trundled in, an’ Popsy dismounted off. Scootie cried an’ tuck on consid’able, an’ I wus plum’ satisfied wid de results.”
“Did Popsy ’pear much broke up?” Skeeter inquired.
“I couldn’t tell ’bout dat,” Figger chuckled. “Scootie tuck him to her cabin fer dinner an’ I seed ’em walkin’ aroun’ town—I s’pose dey is huntin’ fer my grave.”
“How do bein’ a corp’ feel like—so fur?” Skeeter snickered.
“’Tain’t so bad,” Figger remarked. “It mought be better ef de town would take a notion to gib me a fust-class fun’ral. Of co’se, de Tickfall quawtette would hab to sing, an’ I’s de male serpranner in dat quawtette. It would be a real nice somepin new fer a corp’ to sing at his own fun’ral.”
“Mebbe us could git de Nights of Darkness to hold a lodge of sorrer on you,” Skeeter cackled.
“Ef dey does, I wants to sing my new solo ’bout ‘Locked in de stable wid de sheep,’” Figger announced.
“Whut about de death ben’fit?” Skeeter inquired. “Is you gwine apply fer dat?”