“I hyuh say he gits good money fum de w’ite folks,” she said slowly.
In silence the meal was finished. Then the woman steadied herself a moment with hands against a table, and, without a word to Maria, walked quickly, with an almost haughty carriage, from the room.
She crossed the narrow drive with a decisive tread, opened the door of Porgy’s room, entered, and closed the door behind her.
§
It was late afternoon. Serena Robbins entered the court, paused at Porgy’s door, and gave a sharp rap on the weathered panel. The door was opened by a woman. The visitor looked through her, and spoke directly to Porgy, who sat within.
“I gots good news,” she announced. “I done tuh see my w’ite folks ’bout Peter; an’ dey say dey gots a frien’ who is a lawyer, an’ he kin git um out. I tell um tuh sen’ um tuh see you ’bout um, ’cause yuh gots so much sense when yuh talks tuh w’ite folks.”
Having delivered her message, Serena turned a broad back upon the woman who stood silently in the doorway, and with the bearing of an arbiter of social destinies, strode to her corner of the court.
Across the drive, Maria, vast and moist, hung over her stove in a far corner of her cook-shop. Several negroes sat at the little tables, eating their early suppers, laughing and chaffing.
“Yuh sho got good-lookin’ white gals in dis town,” drawled a slender young octoroon. He was attired in sky-blue, peg-top trousers, yellow spats, and in the center of a scarlet bow-tie gleamed an immense paste horseshoe.
“Do listen tuh Sportin’ Life!” said a black, loutish buck admiringly. “Ef he ain’t lookin’ at de rollin’ bones, he always gots he eye on de women.”