“Mawnin’, Shinny,” Popsy said with a sighing respiration. “I wus jes’ tryin’ to reckoleck whut I come in dis place fur an’ whar must I set down at.”
“I reckin you better set down up close to de kitchen, whar you kin smell de vittles. Dat’ll git you more fer yo’ money,” Shin snickered. “I reckin you is hankerin’ atter a bowl of soup, ain’t you?”
“I b’lieve dat wuz whut I come in dis place fer. I’s gittin’ powerful fergitful as de days goes by.”
“You comes in here mighty nigh eve’y day fer a bowl of soup,” Shin told him. “Is you fergot dat fack?”
“Is dat possible?” Popsy exclaimed. “I muss be spendin’ my money too free.”
“You needn’t let dat worry yo’ mind,” Shin replied, as he motioned to a negro waitress to bring the soup. “You ain’t got nobody to suppote but yo’ own self.”
“Figger Bush lives wid me,” Popsy growled. “He oughter he’p suppote me some, but he won’t do it. He wuz always a most onreliable pickaninny, an’ all de good I ever got out of him I had to beat out wid a stick.”
“Figger’s wife oughter git some wuck out of him,” Shin laughed.
“She cain’t do it! Excusin’ dat, she ain’t home right now. Dat’s how come I’s got to eat wid you,” Popsy grumbled, digging the tine of his fork into the soft pine table to accentuate his remarks, and then flourishing the fork in the air for emphasis. “Figger is de lazies’ nigger in de worl’.”
Having uttered this remark, the old man leaned back in his chair and thrust the fork into his coat pocket while his aged eyes stared out of the window at nothing. Shin noted the disappearance of the fork, but did not mention it. The negro waitress appeared, placed the soup under the old man’s nose and went away. At last he glanced down.