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.