“Dat’s right,” Figger wailed. “Whut muss I do?”
“Don’t start squealin’ like a pig kotch in a gap,” Skeeter snapped, as he passed around a box of cigarettes. “Smoke one of dese an’ ease down yo’ mind a little.”
“Whut muss I do?” Figger wailed again.
“Vinegar, you ax ’terrogations while I medjertates,” Skeeter proposed, as he leaned his chair back against the tree.
“When did you perceive dis here Popsy las’, Figger?” Vinegar inquired.
“More’n twenty year ago.”
“Whut do he look like?”
“He looks like a black nigger. I s’pose he’s bleached out some in de las’ twenty year.”
“Is you ever heard any word from him befo’?”
“Naw, suh. Word ain’t been sont.”