“Nebber you min’, Sister,” the preacher assured her comfortingly. “Gawd always lub de righteous.”
Dazed, and much pleased at the attention that she was receiving, while still happily unmindful of its cause, the old woman smiled a vague smile, and was hoisted into the wagon.
During the funeral the sun had disappeared behind clouds that had blown in swiftly from the sea, and now a scurry of large drops swept over the vehicles, and trailed away across the desolate graves.
“Dat’s all right now fer Robbins,” commented Porgy. “Gawd done sen’ he rain already fuh wash he feet-steps offen dis eart’.”
“Oh, yes, Brudder!” contributed a woman’s voice; and, “Amen, my Jedus!” added another.
§
In the early afternoon of the day of the funeral, Porgy sat in his doorway communing with Peter. The old man was silent for awhile, his grizzled head bowed, and an expression of brooding tenderness upon his lined face.
“Robbins war a good man,” he reflected at length, “an’ dat nigger, Crown, war a killer, an’ fuhebber gettin’ intuh trouble. Yet, dere lie Robbins, wid he wife an’ fadderless chillen; an’ Crown done gone he ways tuh do de same t’ing ober again somewheres else.”
“Gone fuh true. I reckon he done lose now on Kittiwar Islan’, in dem palmettuh t’icket; an’ de rope ain’t nebber make fuh ketch um an’ hang um.” Porgy stopped suddenly, and motioned with his head toward someone who had just entered the court. The new arrival was a white man of stocky build, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, and a goatee. He was swinging a heavy cane, and he crossed the court directly and paused before the two. For a moment he stood looking down at them with brows drawn fiercely together. Then he drew back his coat, exhibiting a police badge, and a heavy revolver in a breast holster.
“You killed Robbins,” he shot out suddenly at Peter. “And I’m going to hang you for it. Come along now!” and he reached out and laid a firm hand upon the old man’s shoulder.