There was a long silence.
“Whut dey got you in fer?” Mobile asked next.
“A nigger painted my clothes in de Chicken-Wing an’ I fit him to a finish,” Mustard chuckled. “Pap helped.”
“Oo-ee, brudders!” Mobile exclaimed mournfully. “I bet dey gives you ’bout fo’teen years fer dat. Dis is a mean town to niggers! I got to dis town on Sunday mawnin’, and got drunk, and got in a rookus in de Chicken-Wing, an’ dey put me in jail befo’ dinner-time an’ tuck all my money off me—an’ I had ’bout fifteen cents!”
“Dat’s too bad,” Mustard sighed, leaning back against the grating behind him. Then he sprang forward suddenly and exclaimed: “Looky here, Mobile! De bars on dis here winder is plum’ loose!”
“Suttinly,” Mobile whispered.
“How come?”
“I sawed on ’em all Sunday atternoon, an’ Sunday night, an’ all to-day, an’ a leetle bit to-night,” Mobile told him.
“You ain’t figgerin’ to git out, is you?” Mustard inquired innocently.
“Naw, son!” Mobile denied in tones which throbbed with disgust. “I jes’ wants to let in a leetle mo’ fresh air.”