“How do Popsy know you is still livin’?” Vinegar inquired.
“Huh!” Skeeter Butts grunted, as he suddenly sat up and slapped his hand upon his knee. “Dat’s de very idear I needs!”
“Whut?” Vinegar asked.
“Figger Bush will be dead when Popsy comes,” Skeeter snickered. “Dead an’ buried!”
“Not ef I kin he’p it!” Figger announced, as he rose to his feet with a frightened air. “You got to ketch a nigger fust befo’ you kin dead an’ bury him.”
“Set down, Figger!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Yo’ gran’pap on yo’ mammy’s side didn’t inherit you no brains! Dis here is a good plan to git you out of trouble.”
“Tell it to me slow,” Figger begged, as he resumed his seat on the ground. “I don’t favor no plan havin’ a dead Figger Bush in it.”
“Listen, Figger!” Skeeter urged. “I wants you to pick out a nice-lookin’ nigger gal whut could play like she wus yo’ widder.”
“Suttinly,” Figger grinned, beginning to see the light. “Scootie Tandy could play widder. She’s been one about two year—all de nigger mens run after her tryin’ to pussuade her to fergit her spite an’ marry agin. I could git her to play widder.”
“Dat’ll put an eend to yo’ mis’ry,” Skeeter cackled. “Go tell Scootie all yo’ trouble, ax Scootie to meet de train dat Popsy comes on, an’ bust de sad news to him dat you is dead an’ buried!”