“Whut does I git off here fer?” Popsy asked querulously.
“Gawd knows,” Mustard grinned. “I done fotch you out to de plantation as by per yo’ own request. Dis is it.”
He lifted the aged man down and walked with him to the house, making slow progress as the old man supported himself with his staff and insisted on stopping at frequent intervals to discuss some vagary of his mind, or to dispute something that Mustard had said.
At last Mustard assisted him to a chair on the porch and handed him a glass of water.
“Glad to hab you-alls out here wid me, Popsy,” he proclaimed. “Set down an’ rest yo’ hat and foots.”
“I ain’t seed de Nigger-Heel plantation fer nigh onto fifty year,” Popsy whined. “I used to wuck on dis plantation off an’ on when I wus a growin’ saplin’.”
“Dis place is changed some plenty since you used to potter aroun’ it,” Mustard said pridefully. “Marse Tom specify dat dis am one of de show-farms of all Louzanny. I made it jes’ whut it is now.”
“Dis ole house is ’bout all I reckernizes real good,” Popsy replied. “It ain’t changed much.”
“Naw, suh. I don’t let dis house git changed. Marse Tom lived here a long time, an’ when he moved to town I’s kinder kep’ de house like it wus when he lef’ it, only sorter made it like his’n in Tickfall. Marse Tom is gwine lemme live here till I dies. He tole me dat hisse’f.”
“It shore is nice to hab a good home,” Popsy said, looking vacantly toward the near-by woods, where he could hear the loud shouts of Little Bit and Orren Randolph Gaitskill.