Sometimes when you step on the shell of a dead turtle it makes a ridiculous squeak. Figger made a noise like that.
“Bad luck, Figger,” Skeeter said sympathetically, as he took the broken nickel-plated cigarette holder from his mouth and handed it to Figger. “I gives you dis little present to show my sad feelin’s todes you.”
Figger’s mental perturbation was such that he stuck it in his mouth, struck a match and tried to light it without placing a cigarette on the end.
“Dis is awful,” he sighed.
“I reckin Popsy is expeckin’ me back about now,” Isaiah remarked as he arose. “As Solly’s nachel gardeen, he axed me to speak up to Solly an’ find out ef she wus willin’. But fust I come to see how Popsy wus fixed financial. Solly ain’t hankerin’ to take in no white folks’ washin’s to suppote a ole gizzard like Popsy.”
“Whar is Popsy now?” Skeeter asked eagerly.
“He’s at Shin Bone’s resterant here in town,” Isaiah replied.
“Us will go wid you, Isaiah!” Skeeter exclaimed. “Ef dar’s a weddin’ plannin’ I wants to he’p it along.”
The three men hurried to the eating-house as rapidly as Figger’s feeble knees could carry him. Skeeter had to support his friend by holding his arm, for all Figger’s vital force was gone. They found Popsy the only patron of the place and he was using a long table in the middle of the room, not for the consumption of food, but for a bed! He was stretched out full length on the table, his arm under his head for a pillow, his rusty stove-pipe hat placed beside him.
“Dis here bridegroom is takin’ a nap,” Skeeter snickered, as he walked in and sat down at the table beside the sleeping man. The others saw no reason to arouse him from his slumbers, so they sat down beside him and looked at the sleeper. Skeeter walked to another table, picked up a stalk of celery and brought it back and placed it in Popsy’s hand where it rested upon his breast.