Taking off his hat, he placed it with exaggerated solemnity over his heart and sighed with pitiable sadness:
“Don’t he look nachel? Ain’t dat a sweet smile on his face? He looks jes’ like I seed him yistiddy—ain’t changed a bit!”
He walked over to Figger, leaned down, and whispered:
“Wus you acquainted wid de corp’?”
“I knowed him real good,” Figger answered, glaring at the prostrate form. “He shore wus a devilish ole cranky nigger.”
“When does de fun’ral orgies take place?” Skeeter whispered. “Is de Revun Vinegar Atts gwine ’fishiate at de ’terment? Po’ ole man—atter all his troubles, he is at rest!”
A slovenly waitress approached the whispering men, yawned prodigiously, and gazed at Popsy with a stupid face.
“I wants you-alls to wake up Popsy an’ tote him off home to bed. Dis here ain’t no nursery. I’s sleepy an’ it’s time to shet up dis house.”
Pap Curtain, on his way home from Coon Island, saw the men gathered around Popsy and entered.
“Whut ails Popsy, brudders?” he exclaimed. “Is de ole man sick?”