Figger stooped and picked up Popsy’s big red handkerchief and passed out. He sat down upon the steps of the porch and unwrapped from the kerchief a cheap photograph of a man with a shoe-brush mustache and a woolly, kinky head. He gazed upon the picture for a long time, then tore it into tiny bits and tossed the fragments over in the high grass.
“Dat kind of Figger Bush is dead!” he announced to himself, while in his eyes there glowed the light of a great resolution. “I’s related to Popsy by bornation, an’ me an’ Popsy is kinnery of de Gaitskills by fightin’ wid de white folks endurin’ of de war. Us is all quality niggers, an’ we got to ack like we wus white!”
On top of the hill Figger heard the rumbling of two wagons, bringing the last of Scootie’s household goods to her new home.
“Won’t de widder be supprised!” Figger chuckled. “Bless Gawd! I ain’t as dead as she an’ me thought I wus!”
He sat chuckling to himself until he recalled Popsy’s last command, and sprang to his feet.
“He tole me not to let nothin’ disturb his nap!” he muttered, as he walked rapidly up the hill toward the wagons. “Now I’s gwine gib de widder de wust jolt she ever got in her life!”
He hid behind a large tree until the first wagon came to where he was standing. Scootie was driving, and she looked like one who had suddenly come into possession of a great treasure.
“Hol’ on a minute, Scootie!” Figger exclaimed, stepping from behind the tree. “Popsy sont me up here to tell you not to disturb him till he tuck a leetle nap!”
“’Tain’t so!” Scootie snapped. “Popsy don’t know yo’ favor or yo’ face!”
But as she looked at Figger Bush she knew beyond a doubt that he was installed in his grandfather’s cabin. Figger’s face glowed with a light of happiness and peace, and there was even something in the face which held the promise of a new manhood through the influence of the grand old man who now lay asleep in the cabin.