“My gawsh!” Figger bleated in dismay. “I done busted a egg on my own doorstep an’ hoodooed my own se’f!”
“Dat’s whut you done, Figger!” Scootie howled. “I tole Popsy real prompt dat he needed a nuss an’ housekeeper in his ole age, an’ as Figger’s widder I wus lawfully ’lected to dat job, an’ he tuck me up right now!”
“Oh-huh!” Figger grunted in despair.
“Me an’ Popsy is gwine move in de ole log hut behime Marse Tom’s house to-morrer,” Scootie exulted. “Ten dollars per month an’ reg’lar vittles, chicken an’ pie—I won’t never hab to wuck no more.”
“Lawdymussy!” Figger sighed.
“Good-by, niggers!” Scootie exclaimed in a happy voice. “I won’t never reckernize you-alls no mo’—I draws a pension!”
She swept out of the house and left two men struck speechless by the information she brought.
A moment later they were interrupted again. Vinegar Atts plowed through the swinging doors, puffing like a steam-boat and sweating like an ice-pitcher.
“Whar kin I find Brudder Popsy Spout, Skeeter?” he bellowed. “I wants to ’vite him to jine de Shoofly chu’ch an’ set heavy in de amen cornder. Dat’s de biggest nigger whut ever come to dis town. Word is sont out dat he old-soldiered wid de Gaitskills—fit wid de white folks! I needs him in my chu’ch!”
Neither Skeeter nor Figger made a reply. Their air of tragedy silenced Vinegar Atts, and he crept forward on tiptoe to where the two men were sitting, smoking cigarettes and sighing. When Vinegar reached a point, where he could see the face of Figger Bush, he jumped as if he had seen a ghost.