“I’s de very same man, Popsy!” Figger wailed in desperation. “Only but I done had my hair an’ mustache cut off.”
“I don’t believe it!” Popsy declared in positive tones. “I raised dis here Figger Bush, an’ I knows he never earnt enough money in his dum lazy life to commit a shave an’ a hair-cut!”
“O Lawdy, whut muss I do?” Figger wailed.
“Git away from dis cabin an’ don’t never show yo’se’f here no mo’!” the old man howled. “I wouldn’t b’lieve you wus Figger Bush ef you sweared on de Bible an’ all de twelve opossums!”
Popsy pounded upon the floor of the porch with the end of his long staff.
“O Scootie!” he called. “Git outen dat kitchen an’ come here a minute.”
Hope flamed up in the heart of Figger. He knew that no one could convince Popsy that he was not dead more certainly than the woman who pretended to be his widow.
Scootie came out upon the porch and gazed with popping eyes at Figger Bush.
“Is dis here nigger yo’ dead husbunt?” Popsy snapped, pointing a palsied finger at Figger.
“Naw, suh,” Scootie replied truthfully.