The old man stood up. He caught his long staff at the little end as a man grasps a baseball bat. He balanced it a moment, poising himself on his feet, as if he were getting ready to knock a “homer,” aiming the stick at Figger’s round, ball-like head!
“Git out!” Popsy whooped.
Figger got out.
Early the next morning Scootie sent two wagonloads of household goods to the log cabin in the rear of Colonel Tom Gaitskill’s home, where Popsy had taken his young wife fifty-five years before.
Scootie deposited these goods in the two front rooms, fixing them up so that Popsy would have a comfortable place after his arrival, and while she was arranging the rest of the rooms. In one room she placed a rickety sofa, a couple of chairs, and a table. She hung a few pictures on the wall, placed a few ornaments upon the mantelpiece, and from the spring beside the house she brought a pitcher of water, placed it on the table, and set a drinking glass beside it.
In the other room she set up Popsy’s bed, placed beside it the only comfortable rocking-chair she possessed, put Popsy’s old, battered suit-case, which contained all his worldly goods, under the bed, and placed upon the mantelpiece all the tobacco and pipes which her late husband had left her.
Then she returned to her own cabin to superintend the removal of the remainder of her goods.
As she came into the yard, Popsy called to her from his seat on the porch.
“I ain’t no good settin’ here in dis rockin’-chair, Scootie. I’ll be gittin’ along to’des my own cabin!”