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It was late afternoon. Serena Robbins entered the court, paused at Porgy’s door, and gave a sharp rap on the weathered panel. The door was opened by a woman. The visitor looked through her, and spoke directly to Porgy, who sat within.
“I gots good news,” she announced. “I done tuh see my w’ite folks ’bout Peter; an’ dey say dey gots a frien’ who is a lawyer, an’ he kin git um out. I tell um tuh sen’ um tuh see you ’bout um, ’cause yuh gots so much sense when yuh talks tuh w’ite folks.”
Having delivered her message, Serena turned a broad back upon the woman who stood silently in the doorway, and with the bearing of an arbiter of social destinies, strode to her corner of the court.
Across the drive, Maria, vast and moist, hung over her stove in a far corner of her cook-shop. Several negroes sat at the little tables, eating their early suppers, laughing and chaffing.
“Yuh sho got good-lookin’ white gals in dis town,” drawled a slender young octoroon. He was attired in sky-blue, peg-top trousers, yellow spats, and in the center of a scarlet bow-tie gleamed an immense paste horseshoe.
“Do listen tuh Sportin’ Life!” said a black, loutish buck admiringly. “Ef he ain’t lookin’ at de rollin’ bones, he always gots he eye on de women.”
Maria’s heavy tread shook the room as she crossed and stood, with arms akimbo, scowling down at her iridescent guest. The man looked up, lowered his eyes quickly, and shifted uneasily in his chair.
“Nigger!” she finally shot at him, and the impact almost jarred him from his chair. “I jus’ tryin’ ter figger out wedder I bettuh kill yuh decent now, wid yuh frien’s about yuh; or leabe you fuh de w’ite gentlemens tuh hang attuh a while.”
“Come now, old lady, don’t talk like dese old-fashioned lamp-oil niggers what have had no adwantage. Why, up in New York, where I been waitin’ in a hotel—”
But he got no further.
“Noo Yo’k,” she shouted. “Don’t yuh try any Noo Yo’kin’ aroun’ dis town. Ef I had my way, I’d go down tuh dat Noo Yo’k boat, an’ take ebbery Gawd’s nigger what come up de gang plank wid er Joseph coat on he back an’ a glass headlight on he buzzom and drap um tuh de catfish befo’ he foot hit decent groun’! Yas; my belly fair ache wid dis Noo Yo’k talk. De fus t’ing dat dem nigger fuhgit is dat dem is nigger. Den dem comes tuh dese decent country mens, and fills um full ob talk wut put money in de funeral ondehtakuh pocket.” Breathless, she closed her arraignment by bringing a fist the size of a ham down upon the table with such force that her victim leapt from his chair and extended an ingratiating hand toward her.
“Dat’ all right, Auntie. Le’s you an’ me be frien’.”
“Frien’ wid yuh?” and her tone dripped scorn. “One ob dese days I might lie down wid er rattlesnake, and when dat time come, yuh kin come right along an’ git intuh de bed. But till den, keep yuh shiny carcase in Noo Yo’k till de debbil ready tuh take chaage ob um!”
Suddenly the anger left her eyes, and her face became grave. She leaned over, and spoke very quietly into his face.
“Fuh Gawd’s sake, don’t talk dat kind ob talk tuh dese hyuh boys. Dis county ain’t nebber yit see a black man git lynch. Dese nigger knows folks, an’ dey knows nigger. Fer Gawd’ sake keep yuh mout’ off w’ite lady. Yuh gots plenty ob yuh own color fuh talk ’bout. Stick tuh dem, an’ yuh ain’t git inter no trouble.”
During Maria’s attack upon her guest, the court had been full of the many-colored sounds that accompanied its evening life. Now, gradually the noise shrunk, seeming to withdraw into itself. All knew what it meant. A white man had entered. The protective curtain of silence which the negro draws about his life when the Caucasian intrudes hung almost tangibly in the air. No one appeared to notice the visitor. Each was busily preoccupied with his task. Yet the newcomer made no move that was not noted by fifty pairs of inscrutable eyes.
The man wore a soft hat drawn well down over his face. He was slender and tall, and walked with his body carried slightly forward, like one who is used to meeting and overcoming difficulties.
A young woman passed him. He reached out and touched her on the arm. She stopped, and turned immediately toward him, her eyes lowered, her manner submissive, but utterly negative.
“I am looking for a man by the name of Porgy,” he said in a clear pleasant voice. “Can you direct me to his room?”
“Porgy?” she repeated slowly, as though trying to remember. Then she called aloud: “Anybody hyuh know a man by de name ob Porgy?”
Several of the silent bystanders looked up. “Porgy?” they repeated, one after another, with shakes of the head.
The white man laughed reassuringly, as though quite used to the proceeding. “Come,” he urged, “I am his friend, Mr. Alan Archdale; I know that he lives here, and I want to help him.”
From behind her tubs, Serena advanced, knocking the ashes from her clay pipe as she came. When she was quite close, she stopped, and peered up into the face above her. Then she turned upon the girl.
“Go ’long an’ call Porgy,” she commanded. “Can’t yuh tell folks when yuh see um?”
A light broke over the young woman’s face.
“Oh, yuh means Porgy?” she cried, as though she had just heard the name for the first time; “I ain’t understan’ wut name yuh say, Boss,” and echoes arose from different parts of the court. “Oh, yes, de gentleman mean Porgy. How come we ain’t understan’.” Then the tension in the air broke, and life resumed its interrupted flow.
The young woman stepped to Porgy’s door, and called. Presently the door opened, and a woman helped the beggar out to his seat upon the sill, then seated herself behind him in the deep gloom of the room.
Archdale crossed the short distance, and seated himself on the sill beside the negro.
“Tell me about your friend who got locked up on account of the Robbins murder,” he asked, without preamble.
In the dim light, Porgy leaned forward and looked long into the keen, kindly face of his questioner.
Archdale gave a surprised exclamation: “Why, you’re the old man who used to beg in front of the apothecary shop on King Charles Street!” he said. Then, after a moment of scrutiny: “But you are not old, after all, are you?” and he studied the face intently. There was a touch of grey in the wool above the ears, and strong character lines flared downward from the nose to corners of a mouth that was, at once, full-lipped and sensuous, yet set in a resolute line most unusual in a negro. With the first indications of age upon it, the face seemed still alive with a youth that had been neither spent nor wasted.
“But, tell me about your friend,” said the visitor, breaking a silence that was commencing to become tense.
Porgy’s face still wore its mask. “How come yuh tuh care, Boss?” he queried.
“Why, I am the Rutledge’s lawyer; and I look after their colored folks for them. I think they must have owned half the slaves in the county. A woman here, Serena Robbins, is the daughter of their old coachman, or something; and she asked them to help her friend out.”
“Peter ain’t gots no money, yuh know, Boss. An’ I jes begs from do’ to do’.” There was still a shade of suspicion in Porgy’s voice.
Archdale laughed reassuringly. “It will not take any money. At least, not much; and I am sure that Mrs. Rutledge will take care of that. So you can go right ahead and tell me all about it.”
Fully satisfied at last, Porgy told the tale of the killing and the subsequent arrest of Peter.
When he had finished the recital, Archdale sat silent for a while. “The dirty hounds!” he said under his breath. Finally he turned wearily to Porgy, and explained slowly:
“Of course we can go to law about this; but it will take no end of time. There is an easier way. He must have someone, who is acceptable to the magistrate, to go his bond. Do you know a man by the name of Huysenberg, who keeps a corner-shop down by the West-end wharf?”
Porgy, listening intently, nodded.
Archdale handed him a bill. “Take this ten dollars to him, and tell him that you want him to go Peter’s bond. He hasn’t any money of his own, and his shop is in his wife’s name; but he has an arrangement with the magistrate that makes him entirely satisfactory.”
He handed Porgy a card with an address pencilled under a printed name. “You will find me here,” he said. “If Peter is not out in two days after you hand over the ten, let me know.” Then, with a brisk, but friendly “Good night,” he left the court.