“Well—”
“Why not try to change them over into governesses and secretaries?”
“Oh, my dear—who would want a colored secretary?”
There was an awkward silence between them which neither the beating of tom-toms nor the rain falling on banana leaves seemed to relieve. Eventually Miss Cramp said:
“You met Mr. Merrit, of course?”
“Met him?”
“Didn’t you, my dear? A fine type of American gentleman—”
“Why, I’ve known Fred Merrit for years.” The familiarity in this remark struck Miss Cramp as unseemly.
“Yes,” remarked she. “He said he’d worked among Negroes all his life.”
Nora experienced first resentment at the implication of this supremely thoughtless comment, then, conflicting with it, amusement at the realization that Fred had evidently been masquerading at this lady’s expense.
“Is there any reason,” she said, “why he shouldn’t work all his life among his own people?”
The statement transfixed Miss Cramp like a lance, and the swift change of mien from complacency to unbelieving horror was so violent that Nora almost felt remorse at having occasioned it.
“What!” Miss Cramp managed a faint little squeal.
“You weren’t under the impression that Mr. Merrit was not a Negro, were you?”
“Why—I—I didn’t know. I thought—”
“I’m sure he wouldn’t have deceived you intentionally.”
“But Mrs. Byle—his complexion—his skin is so fair—”
“Yes. He even has green eyes.”
“I should never have thought—”
“You ought to have noticed his hair, ‘my dear.’ ”
“His hair?”
“It’s all that betrays him and you have to look close to see that it really is kinky.”
At this point the irate Buckram Byle made his presence felt. No one had been paying much attention to Mr. Byle. And so, as much to attract notice as to punish his wife, he now called loudly to her that he had long since indicated his intention to go home and had no idea of letting her ignore it. Nora, having topped off an excellent evening, raised no objection.
“I must go,” she said to Miss Cramp. “It’s really so very nice knowing you—er—my dear—”
Miss Cramp sat staring about with eyes that comprehended nothing, the turbulence in her own mind confusing every perception: eddies and currents of heads swirling about in the stream below her; constantly shifting, insane patterns of color, coming and going; wanton cries, prodigal jests, abandoned Negro laughter; and the orchestra, remotely dominant, sustaining it all with a ceaseless rhythm like the pulse of a pounding heart.
All this the mad accompaniment of a pitiless cycle of reflections:
“A Negro on Court Avenue and I asked him to call—they’ll blame me—A Negro on Court Avenue—”
Jive
XIII
Despite the genial atmosphere of Pat’s pool room, the substantial good will of the table over which the varicolored ivory balls rolled, the cozy cheer of the green-shaded low-hung light, Jinx and Bubber could not discuss even the weather in agreement.
“Sho is hot,” Bubber had commented, missing a shot and wiping a glistening brow on his arm.
“Don’ blame d’ weather jes’ ’cause you can’t shoot pool,” returned Jinx. “I likes warm weather like this.”
“Can’t see what fo’.”
“Well—we got to work outdoors, ain’t we?”
“Yea—in d’ heat.”
“Aw right. In warm weather you kin find some place outdoors to cool off, but when it’s cold, damn if you kin find any place outdoors to git warm.”
“Cold weather fo’ mine,” disagreed Bubber.
“Shuh!”
“Yas suh. We got to wear clo’es, ain’t we?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, when it’s cold you kin put on enough to git warm, but when it’s hot, damn if you kin take off enough to git cool!”
Jinx pretended to ignore this unanswerable point by bending far and low over a long corner shot.
“Number eight,” he called, signifying his intention to pocket the black ball. “Sho loves to make this eight-ball—jes’ like punchin’ you in d’ nose.” And he made it, cueing the ball with exaggerated vehemence.
Henry Patmore sauntered up. “Where’s yo’ boy?” he inquired.
“What you mean—Shine?”
“Don’ mean his brother.”
“Hell,” said Bubber. “Ain’ see ’at boogy a single night sence d’ dance.”
“Jivin’ a dickty gal now,” explained Jinx, regarding the table critically, with a sidewise twist of his head. “Bringin’ me mud.”
“Yea?” said Pat.
“Dickty?” scoffed Bubber. “What’s dickty ’bout ’er?”
“Ev’ything,” said Jinx preparing to try a difficult combination, “—compared to him.”
“Mean the gal he picked up at the Casino th’ other night?” asked Pat.
“Don’ mean her sister,” assented Bubber. “She ain’t nobody’s dickty, though. Powerful easy to look at but jes’ ordinary K.M. right on.”
“She may be a K.M.,” conceded Jinx, “but if they’s anything ordinary ’bout her, I ain’ seen it.”
“Got the big boy goin’, huh?” grinned Pat.
“Goin’ and comin’,” said Bubber; then to Jinx, “How long you go’n’ look at that ball, man? Go on—shoot!”
“Who d’ hell’s makin’ this shot?”
“Ain’ nobody makin’ it, far as I kin see.”
Pat smiled metallically and moved off. Jinx called and shot, dispersing a cluster of balls, of which not one found its way into a pocket. Whereupon Bubber echoed their cackling laughter, revealing his stretch of bare upper gum between the two lateral stumps.
“One of these times when you laff like that,” prophesied Jinx with great ill-humour, “I’m go’n’ bus’ you in d’ mouth so hard you’ll grow yo’self some teeth.”
Bubber’s scorn was superlative. “You might stick out a fis’,” he warned, “but you won’t draw nothin’ back but a nub.” He busily chalked his cue, surveying the pattern of balls with enormous gravity.
“Yo’ laigs is so bowed,” Jinx observed, “that you wear yo’ shoes out on d’ sides. Better stop laffin’ at me like that. One of these times I bet I’m go’n’ run you knock-kneed.”
“I wouldn’ run that fas’,” returned Bubber, squatting to squint over the table, “after nobody.”
“Ain’ talkin’ ’bout after—talkin’ ’bout from.”
“From?” Bubber stood erect. “Me run from you?”
“You do have bright moments, dark as you is.”
“Brother, let me tell you sump’m. If it ever even looks like I’m runnin’ from you, they won’t be but one explanation fo’ it.” Bubber paused oratorically. “Be ’cause you done outrun me so fas’ you mos’ caught up wid me ag’in.” Wherewith he made his shot.
Jinx solemnly shook his head. “It sho’ would be awful hard,” he said.
“What?”
“Awful hard on
