“Whut ails you?” Skeeter inquired, looking at Figger intently. “You ain’t look nachel to me some way.”
Figger sighed deeply, then executed a feeble grin.
“A nigger man is comin’ to see me, Skeeter,” he explained, “an’ I don’t need him.”
“Who’s a-comin’?”
“Popsy Spout.”
“Whar’s he been at?” Vinegar asked.
“Yallerbam’,” Figger told him.
There was a moment of silence while the two waited for Figger to tell them all about it. But if Figger ever did anything he had to be pushed along.
“I don’t see nothin’ so powerful bad in dat,” Skeeter snapped, impatient at the delay. “Popsy Spout is comin’ from Yalabama—well?”
“It’s dis way,” Figger explained, slapping at the ground with his battered wool hat to give emphasis to his speech. “Popsy Spout is my gran’pap on my mammy’s side. My mammy died soon an’ Popsy raised me up. He always toted a big hick’ry cane an’ he raised me pretty frequent. One day he promise me a whalin’ an’ I snooped ten dollars outen his money-bag an’ skunt out fer Tickfall. Dat was twenty year ago.”