About the time the boys had climbed into Mustard’s wagon in front of the
saloon, Popsy Spout had entered the door of the eating-house and stood
there with all the hesitancy of imbecility.
He was over six feet tall and as straight as an Indian. His face was as
black as tar, and was seamed with a thousand tiny wrinkles. His long
hair was as white as milk, and his two wrinkled and withered hands
rested like an eagle’s talons upon a patriarchal staff nearly as tall as
himself.
On his head was a stove-pipe hat, bell-shaped, the nap long since worn
off and the top of the hat stained a brick-red by exposure to the
weather. An old, faded, threadbare and patched sack coat swathed his
emaciated form like a bobtailed bath-robe.
The greatest blight which old age had left upon his dignified form was
in his eyes: the vacant, age-dimmed stare of second childhood, denoting
that reason no longer sat regnant upon the crystal throne of the
intellect.
There were many tables in the eating-house, but Popsy could not command
his mind and his judgment to the point of deciding which table he would
choose or in which chair he would seat himself.
Shin Bone, from the rear of his restaurant, looked up and gave a grunt
of disgust.
“Dar’s dat ole fool come back agin,” he growled. “Ef you’d set him in
one of dese here revolver chairs, he wouldn’t hab sense enough to turn
around in it. I reckon I’ll hab to go an’ sell him a plate of soup.”
“Mawnin’, Popsy,” he said cordially, as he walked to the door where the
old man stood. Shin reserved a private opinion of all his patrons, but
outwardly he was very courteous to all of them, for very good business
reasons.
“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.
“Fer de Lawd’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Whar did dis here soup come from?”
“You jes’ now ordered it,” Shin said sharply. “I had a cullud gal fotch
it to you, an’ you got to pay fer it.”
“I won’t pay for it ontil atter I done et it,” Popsy growled.
He picked up a knife, started to dip it into the soup, found that this
was the wrong tool, and thrust the knife into the pocket of his coat to
keep company with the purloined fork.
Shin noted the disappearance of the knife, but said nothing. He handed
Popsy a pewter spoon and remarked:
“You better lap it up quick, Popsy; she’ll be gittin’ cold in a minute.”
“Who’ll be gittin’ cold?” Popsy asked absently. “I didn’t hear tell of
no she havin’ a cold. Is she got a rigger? Dese here spring days draws
out all de p’ison in de blood.”
“Naw, suh. I says de soup will git cold.”
“Aw,” Popsy answered, as he dipped his spoon in the liquid and sipped
it. “Dis soup am pretty tol’able good. Does you chaw yo’ vittles fawty
times, Shinny?”
“Not de same vittles,” Shin said. “I chaws mo’ dan fawty times at a
meal, I reckin.”
“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.
“De price is fifteen cents, Popsy,” Shin reminded him, as he followed
him toward the front. “Let me hold yo’ spoon while you feels fer yo’
money.”
“I didn’t fotch no spoon wid me,” the old man whined, as he held it out
to Shin. “Dis spoon is your’n.”
He paid the money to Shin, and started toward the door again, when he
was once more intercepted.
“Lemme fix de collar of yo’ coat, brudder,” Shin suggested.
He seized the old man by the shoulders, shook the loose coat on his thin
shoulders, and pretended to fit it around his wrinkled neck; at the same
time, he thrust his hand into the coat pocket and extracted the
purloined knife and fork.
Popsy never missed them. In fact, he did not know that he had them. Shin
handed him his patriarchal staff and gave him a slight push toward the
door.
At that moment Mustard Prophet stood at the entrance, “Is you ready to
go out, Popsy?” Mustard asked cordially, as he shook hands.
“Dar now!” Popsy snorted. “I knowed I come in dis place fer some puppus,
but I couldn’t think whut it wus. I promised to meet Mustard here. He’s
gwine take me out to his house to dinner, an’ I’m done went an’ et!”
“Dat’s no diffunce, Popsy,” Mustard chuckled. “You’ll be hongry agin by
de time you gits out to de Nigger-Heel.”
Popsy stopped beside the wagon and stared in pop-eyed amazement at the
white boy who sat with his feet hanging out of the rear end.
“Befo’ Gawd!” the old man bawled. “Dar’s little Jimmy Gaitskill dat I
ain’t seed fer sixty year’!”
“You’s gwine back too fur, Popsy,” Mustard laughed. “Dat’s Marse Jimmy
Gaitskill’s grandchile.”
“Huh,” the old man grunted, as Mustard helped him to a seat in the
wagon. “De Gaitskills look de same all over de worl’.”
“How does dey look, Popsy?” Mustard chuckled.
“Dey’s got de look of eagles,” Popsy replied.
Shin watched the wagon until it disappeared around a turn in the road.
His eyes were on Popsy’s bent form as far as he could see it.
“Dat’s de biggest bat I ever knowed,” Shin remarked to the world as he
turned back and entered his place of business.