“Yes—no—I suppose so,” Rouke answered, wondering how he could explain to the negro without getting him all balled up again.
“Ef dat’s so, den I understand whut you signifies,” Vinegar boomed. “A feller come to my chu’ch las’ year an’ he had somepin like dat. He had a Noer’s Ark, an’ de Chillum of Israel, an’ a Daniel in de lions’ pen—an’ dat wus all pretty pious an’ proper. But atter dat, he had whut he called a Tablow Vevong of livin’ pictures, an’ I didn’t favor ’em much. He put some black little tight underclothes on me an’ made me stand in a wash tub an’ called me ‘September Mawn.’”
“Aw, hell!” Shirley Rouke remarked. “That ain’t it at all.”
“Sorry, boss,” Vinegar said in troubled tones. “I figgered dat us wus jes’ ’bout to ketch on to each yuther.”
“Don’t you colored persons ever put on any plays?” Rouke inquired.
“Does you mean do us pull off any shows?” Vinegar asked.
“Yes.”
“Suttinly, boss. Us gin a show las’ week.”
“That’s good,” Rouke declared. “Now a moving picture is simply a show, a play, all the parts taken an’ acted by colored persons, and while they are playing we will take pictures of them. See?”
“I sees!”