“Dat’s one of dem wuthless, no ’count piccaninnies a-comin’ now,” he muttered. “Dem chillun got deir whistlin’ gift from deir paw. I could whistle jes’ like dat befo’ I loss all de toofs outen my head.”
Instantly a footstep sounded in the rear of the house, and the door opened. Figger Bush entered the room and stopped near the door, looking at Popsy Spout with eyes as wistful as the eyes of a hound.
“Whar de debbil is you been at, Figger?” the old man howled. “I been callin’ you all de mawnin’!”
“I been settin’ aroun’,” Figger muttered. “I’s tired!”
“By dam’!” the old man snorted. “Mebbe yo’ legs is a little feeble an’ tired, but yo’ stomick don’t never weary none. Whut you been doin’ in dat kitchen—eatin’ or drinkin’?”
“Nothin’,” Figger mumbled.
“Ef you been drinkin’ dat dram agin, I’ll find out about it!” Popsy ranted in the falsetto of senility. “Licker talks mighty loud when it gits loose from de jug, an’ de fust time you whoops a yell I’ll wallop yo’ hide wid dis stick.”
“Yes, suh,” Figger murmured, rubbing his shaved head.
“Whar is yo’ hair gone at?” Popsy howled, glaring at Figger’s bald pate.
“Ole Mis’ Mildred cut it off!” Figger prevaricated with a snicker. “She say she wanted to sot a hin an’ needed my wool to make a nest.”