KATE. Everything.
MRS. VERNON. [Indicates the melodeon.] Play something.
KATE. I can't play on that melodeon, mother.
MRS. VERNON. Poor old melodeon! for all the music we git out of it—might as well be a folding bed.
ESROM. [Appearing at window.] I knowed they oughtn't be any clinker in that coke.
JOE. [From his paper.] That's all right, Esrom.
ESROM. Don't want no mo' coke, Mistah?
JOE. No, no, no!
ESROM hands KATE a letter.
ESROM. [Whispering.] He—he wants an answer.