“My—good—gosh, Figger!” Vinegar wailed in his siren-whistle voice. “You done suicided yo’se’f! Took five days to count his money—got it in de bank fetchin’ int’rust—livin’ in his own cabin an’ drawin’ rations—an’ you is de only blood kin of Tickfall’s leadin’ nigger sitson an’ you—is—dead!”
“Tell me whut to do, Revun?” Figger wailed.
“I ain’t got time, Figger!” Atts bawled. “I got to tote a Christyum greetin’ an’ welcome to dat noble nigger man!”
Vinegar Atts went out of the saloon with the rolling walk of a big bear.
“Tell me whut to do, Skeeter!” Figger wailed.
“Search me!” Skeeter exclaimed. “’Tain’t no trouble fer a nigger to die—dat comes nachel. But when a nigger tries to come to life an’ make folks b’lieve it—Lawdy!”
“I’s gwine right down an’ see Popsy!” Figger announced with sudden determination. “I’ll tell him dat Scootie is been lyin’ to him all de time. I kin prove by Marse Tom an’ all de white folks dat I ain’t never been dead a-tall!”
“I hopes you luck, Figger!” Skeeter exclaimed in a tone which indicated that he considered such an enterprise futile.
Figger lost no time in getting to the cabin where Scootie lived.
He found Popsy sitting upon the porch, smoking a corn-cob pipe which had been the property of Scootie’s deceased husband, and languidly slapping at his face with a turkey-wing fan. His stove-pipe hat rested upon the floor at his feet and contained a big red handkerchief.