“Fer de Lawd’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Whar did dis here soup come from?”
“You jes’ now ordered it,” Shin said sharply. “I had a cullud gal fotch it to you, an’ you got to pay fer it.”
“I won’t pay for it ontil atter I done et it,” Popsy growled.
He picked up a knife, started to dip it into the soup, found that this was the wrong tool, and thrust the knife into the pocket of his coat to keep company with the purloined fork.
Shin noted the disappearance of the knife, but said nothing. He handed Popsy a pewter spoon and remarked:
“You better lap it up quick, Popsy; she’ll be gittin’ cold in a minute.”
“Who’ll be gittin’ cold?” Popsy asked absently. “I didn’t hear tell of no she havin’ a cold. Is she got a rigger? Dese here spring days draws out all de p’ison in de blood.”
“Naw, suh. I says de soup will git cold.”
“Aw,” Popsy answered, as he dipped his spoon in the liquid and sipped it. “Dis soup am pretty tol’able good. Does you chaw yo’ vittles fawty times, Shinny?”
“Not de same vittles,” Shin said. “I chaws mo’ dan fawty times at a meal, I reckin.”