“You reckin’ Popsy is comin’ to colleck up?” Skeeter snickered.
“Naw, suh. I figger dat Popsy is gittin’ ole an’ lonesome an’ tuck up a notion to come an’ pay me a little visit.”
“How long will he stay on?” Skeeter asked.
“I kinder think he thinks he’ll stay on till he dies,” Figger announced in tragic tones, as he produced a soiled letter and held it out to Skeeter. “Read dis, an’ see kin you find any yuther hopes in whut he do say.”
Skeeter took the letter out of the envelope and read it aloud, giving the peculiar African pronunciation to the words as he spoke them:
“Dear Figger:
Dis letter will kotch you jes’ befo’ I gits offen de train at Tickfall. I wus raised an’ bawn in de Little Mocassin Swamp, an’ I wants to come home an’ live wid you till I die. I needs somebody of my kinnery aroun’ so I won’t git so lonesome. Good-by. I’m comin’ powerful soon.
Popsy Spout.”
Skeeter handed the letter back with a look of deep sympathy and pity.
“Bad luck, Figger,” Vinegar Atts bellowed. “You cain’t mo’ dan half suppote yo’se’f, an’ now you done got a ready-made gran’pap to suppote. A nigger kin git mighty ole an’ deef, but he always hears de dinner-horn.”