Presently at the end of the procession appeared a grinning black face. A negro soldier with a small American flag stuck in his hat, deftly rattled a set of bones and lent his voice to the singing with a fervor unmistakable even if his rendering of the words was peculiar:
“O, sarm city on,
Form a batty one,”
sang Gus Fitchett, then suddenly to the intense delight of the boys he broke into a series of pigeon wings, double shuffles, and cake walks, keeping time with his clattering bones. In a moment there was an end of the singing and Gus was the center of a group which cheered, applauded, urged him on till he stopped exhausted to wipe his perspiring face.
All at once he stiffened up rigidly and stood at attention as an American officer came up, whom he saluted. Philip Randolph, trying to repress a smile said authoritatively: “You black rascal, what are you up to?”
Gus gave a series of salutes. “Jes’ celebratin’, suh. Wah obah, suh.”
“You’ll be over, over in the guard house if you don’t look out,” said Philip. “Hallo, Lucie, are you in this, too?”
“Of course. Please don’t scold Gus; he is such a dear.”
“Oh, you know him, do you?”
“Indeed I do. He’ll fall at your feet if I tell him you’re my uncle from Virginia. Wasn’t his dancing wonderful?”