“Marse Tom Gaitskill says dat people oughter chaw deir vittles fawty times befo’ dey swallows it.”
“I’d hate to practise on a oystyer,” Shin giggled. “White folks is always talkin’ fool notions.”
Shin sat by and watched the old man as he consumed the remainder of his soup in silence. He also ate some crackers, drank a cup of coffee, to all appearances unconscious that Shin sat beside him. Finally, he looked up with a slightly surprised manner and asked:
“Whut did you say to me, Shinny?”
“I said I’d hate to practise on oystyers.”
“Practise whut on oystyers?”
“Chawin’ one fawty times,” Shin explained.
“My gawsh!” Popsy snorted. “Who ever heard tell of anybody in his real good sense chawin’ a raw oystyer fawty times? Is you gone crippled in yo’ head?”
“Naw, suh, I——”
The old man did not wait for the reply, but interrupted by rising to his feet with the intention of going out. The spoon he was holding he did not lay down upon the table, but carried it toward the door with him.