“Hol’ on, dar!” he bellowed, shaking his finger at the camera. “Don’t I git my picture took, too? You an’ me made a trade——”
“Cut!” Rouke snapped, which is the technical word of command to the camera artist to stop the picture.
“Get away from there, you fat fool! What you cut across the front for and spoil the picture? Get out!”
Rouke’s tone and gestures were so threatening that Vinegar jumped ten feet, tripped over a side line and fell on his head.
“Aw, the devil!” Pellet snarled savagely. “Now I got to set up that line again!”
He stooped and clawed around on the ground to find a rock to throw, but rocks are as scarce as ice-cream cones in a Louisiana swamp.
“Huh!” Vinegar grunted as he moved farther and farther away from the irate white men. “Dem white gen’lemens is done poured me back in de jug!”
“Now, we’ll start again!” Rouke proclaimed. “Ready, action, go!”
Lalla and Sour Sudds began their love play, the camera clicking off their perfect action.
“Now, Figger!” Rouke bawled. “Come on! Pick up the tray and walk to the table!”