But Porgy plucked at her skirt, and she looked down.
“Let um be,” he said in a hopeless voice. “It too late now. Ain’t yuh see he done settle, an’ he pick my room fuh light ober? It ain’t no use now. Yuh knows dat. It ain’t no use.”
§
The next morning Porgy sat in his accustomed place by Archdale’s door. Autumn had touched the oaks in the park across the way, and they brushed the hard, bright sky with a slow circling motion, and tossed handfuls of yellow leaves down upon the pedestrians who stepped briskly along.
King Charles Street was full of hurrying men on their way to the cotton offices and the big wholesale warehouses that fronted on the wharves. Like the artery of a hale old man who has lain long asleep, but who wakens suddenly and springs into a race, the broad thoroughfare seemed to pound and sing with life.
The town was in a generous mood. Again and again the bottom of Porgy’s cup gave forth its sharp, grateful click as a coin struck it and settled. But the cripple had not even his slow glance of thanks for his benefactors on that flashing autumn morning. Always he kept veiled, apprehensive eyes directed either up or down the street, or lifted frightened glances to the sky, as though fearing what he might see there.
At noon a white man stopped before him. But he did not drop a coin and pass on.
After a moment, Porgy brought his gaze back, and looked up.
The white man reached forward, and handed him a paper.
“Dat fuh me?” asked Porgy, in a voice that shook.