“It’s a tragedy,” Rouke informed him. “Not a funny play, but a show full of love and fighting, and brave men and women.”
“Don’t us be allowed to bust no jokes in dis here draymer?” Vinegar Atts wanted to know.
“No!” Rouke told him. “You won’t have to say a word. You don’t talk. You act!”
“Huh!” Skeeter Butts proclaimed. “You cain’t git up no lock-jaw play wid niggers. Ef a nigger cain’t whistle and sing and pat his foots, he’d druther be dead!”
“You don’t understand,” Rouke said sharply. “This is a motion picture play. Didn’t any of you folks ever see a movie show?”
“Naw, suh!” came a chorus of voices.
“All right!” Rouke answered. “Follow me and I’ll take you down to the theater and show you one!”
The negroes fell in line, and Rouke led them through the mazes of Dirty-Six, up the main streets of Tickfall and into the little theater.
Peter Pellet was perched aloft, having made all arrangements with the owner of the house for this exhibition.
The negroes seated themselves close to the front, a circle of light flashed upon the screen, a slight whirring sound came from the projection room and a title fluttered before them: