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“Porgy lucky,” said a low voice beside her. “Mus’ be yer gots two dollar dere fer um.” Sportin’ Life lifted his elegant trousers, so that the knees would not bag, and squatted on the flags at her side. He removed his stiff straw hat, with its bright band, and spun it between his hands. The moonlight was full upon his face, with its sinister, sensuous smile.
She looked at him squarely a moment, then said in a cold, level voice:
“I can’t ’member ebber meetin’ a nigger dat I like less dan I does you.”
“Thank yer kindly,” he replied, not in the least degree daunted. “But jus’ de same, I wants ter be frien’ wid yer. Me and you ain’t usen ter dese small-town slow ways. We ain’t been above seein’ night-life what is night-life, an’ I jus’ wants ter talk to you now and den; dat’s all.”
“I gots no time fuh talk,” she told him. “An’ wut mo’, I t’rough wid de kin’ ob nights you is t’inking ’bout.”
“No mo’ red-eye; none ’tall?” he queried. “Nebber gits t’irsty, eh?”
“Yes, Gawd knows, I does git t’irsty now and den,” she said impulsively; then added sharply, “But I done t’rough now, I tells yer; I done t’rough.”
She arose to go. “Yo’ kin’ mek me sick,” she told him; “an’ I ain’t wants tuh hab no mo’ talk wid yuh.”
He got spryly to his feet, and stood beside her. “Oh, come on, le’s let bygone be bygone, an’ be frien’.” Then his voice became low and ingratiating: “Come; gimme yer han’, Sister,” he said.
Acquiescent, but mystified, she held out her open palm.
He poured a little pile of white powder into it. There it lay in the moonlight, very clean and white on her dark skin. “Happy dus’!” she said, and her voice was like a gasp. “Take dat t’ing away, nigger. I t’rough wid um, I tells yuh.” But she did not turn her hand over and let it fall upon the ground.
“Jus’ a little touch fer ole time sake,” he whispered. “’Tain’t ’nough ter hurt er fly. An’ it ain’t goin’ ter cos’ yer one cent.”
She stood a moment longer, and her hand trembled, spilling a few grains between her fingers. Then suddenly she clapped her palm over her mouth. When she took it away it was quite empty.
Sportin’ Life heaved a sigh of relief, turned and leant against the wall—and waited.
In the corner by Serena’s bench the party was breaking up. Only a few women were left, and instead of the blur of general talk, remarks leapt clear. They were discussing the crap game that had just closed.
“Dey is somet’ing berry queer ’bout de way de money always go tuh de same place,” a voice was saying.
The moonlight ebbed from the corner where Bess and Sportin’ Life stood. Five minutes had passed since she had made her sudden decisive gesture. She stood oddly rigid, with her hands clenched at her sides.
Abruptly she spun around. “Yuh gots mo’ ob dat?” Her voice was low and taut.
“Sho’ I has!” came the answer, with a confident laugh. “But it don’t come cheap. Gimme dat money yer got dere.”
Silently she held out her hand, and poured the coins into his palm.
He gave her a small folded paper.
“I got more ob dat when yer needs it,” he said, as he turned away.
But she did not hear him. She snatched the paper, opened it, and threw the contents into her mouth.
The court was sinking to sleep. One by one the lighted windows went blank. The women at the washbench got to their feet. One yawned noisily, and another knocked her clay pipe out on the flags in a shower of sparks. Then a voice came clearly—the one that had complained before about the crap game.
“I ain’t sayin’ ef it conjer, er jus’ plain loaded dice. All I gots tuh say is dat dam nigger, Porgy, steal my Sam’ wages off him now t’ree week runnin’.”
Out of the shadows and across the moonlit square a figure flashed, gesturing wildly.
The women leapt back. The one who had done the talking screamed once, the shrill note echoing around the walls. The advancing figure closed convulsive hands upon her shoulders and snatched her body forward. Wide, red-lit eyes glared into her face. A voice half sobbed, half screamed, “Yuh say dat ’bout Porgy? Yuh say Porgy is t’ief?”
The victim was young and strong. She tore the hands from her shoulders and raised her arms before her face. One of the other women reached out to seize the intruder, but was met with a glare so insanely malignant that she retreated screaming.
Above them windows were leaping to light. Dark bodies strained from sills. Feet sounded, running down clapping dilapidated stairways. A shrill, long, terrifying shriek cut across the growing noise, and the women clinched and fell. Bystanders rushed to intervene, and became involved. Always in the centre of the storm a maddened woman whirled like a dervish and called horribly upon her God, striking and clawing wildly.
The babel became terrific. The entire population of the court contributed to the general confusion. In the rooms above, children wailed out a nameless terror.
Suddenly over the tumult sounded the gong of the patrol wagon, and through the gateway half-a-dozen policemen advanced with pistols out, and clubs ready.
The uproar stopped suddenly at its peak. Shadows dropped back and were gulped by deeper shadow. Feet made no sound in retreating. Solid bodies became fluid, sliding. Yawning doorways drew them in. Miraculously the court was converted into a vacant, walled square, in which stood six erect figures, looking a little theatrical and foolish with their revolvers and clubs, and a woman who shook menacing hands at nothing at all and swore huskily at phantoms.
“No trouble finding the cause of the disturbance,” said an authoritative voice. “Get her, men. Better use bracelets. Can’t tell about dope cases.”
The squad closed quickly. For a moment a grotesque shadow tumbled and shifted in the centre of the court; then a voice said, “Steady now.” The mass broke into individual figures, and, under the ebbing moonlight, moved toward the entrance with a manacled woman in their midst.
Porgy had opened his door at the first outcry and sat on the sill trying to get the import of the disturbance. Now, as the group passed close to him, he looked up. The woman had ceased her outcry, and was looking about with vague, unseeing eyes. As they walked past his doorway, so close that he could have touched the nearest officer with his hand, she looked down, and her gaze focussed upon the sitting figure. Her body stiffened, and her head lifted with the old, incongruous gesture of disdain.
“Bess!” called Porgy once very loudly; and again, in a voice that sagged, “Bess!”
One of the policemen paused and looked down upon the speaker. But the woman turned deliberately away, and he hastened to rejoin the party. Then the wagon clanged down the darkened street.