E. K. Means / Is This a Title? It Is Not. It Is the Name of a Writer of Negro Stories, Who Has Made Himself So Completely the Writer of Negro Stories That His Book Needs No Title

by E. K. Means

“What did you eat?” Gaitskill asked, wondering what food could produce slumber as profound as Mustard seemed to have experienced.

“I et two cans of sawdines, an’ a can of devilish ham, an’ a hunk of cheese.”

“What else?”

“I et some crackers an’ some beelony sausage, an’ two awanges, an’ fo’ bananers, an’ a box of candy.”

“What else?”

“Nothin’ else, Marse Tom. Of co’se, I kinder nibbled aroun’ a little. I foun’ some raisins an’ a diffunt kind of cheese whut smelt like somepin dead to me, an’ some cakes wid white icin’ on de top, an’ a can of oystyers.”

“Did you get enough to satisfy your appetite?”

“Satisfy—oh, yes, suh, I felt powerful well fed.”

The sheriff broke into a loud laugh.

“No use to cackle, Mister Johnnie. I’s tellin’ de trufe. I shore had a plenty.”