"Roun' by de shed-roof."
"Mirrie, come yah, an' see wha' Din do! Ketch de house afiah!"
"It ent me! It is de black pin burnin'—"
Down by the back of the breadfruit tree Alfie and Mirrie were sitting close to each other—very close. They hated to be diverted by such silly inquisitiveness. Calm, unexcited, Mirrie was prodding the boy to do something to her. She had put it down on a matchbox, in edgy, scrawly letters—one word—but it refused to stir Alfie's sluggish desire. The scent of something ripe and rich and edible—something to be tasted with the lore of the tropics deep in one's blood—something bare and big and immortal as the moon—compelling something—began to fill the air about the little boy. He secretly felt it surging in Mirrie, and something beat a tattoo in his temples. Upon him a certain mirage fell—sure, unerring.
"Wha' yo' two doin' heah?" shouted Din, coming up. "Hey, Oi gwine tell mah mahmie 'pon yo' two."
"Wha' yo' gwine tell she? Yo' mouthah!"
"Dat—"
"Mout' run jess lik' sick neygah behine."
"Dat what? Wha' yo' ketch me doin', yo' liad t'ing yo'? I ent doin' nutton. I was just showin' Alfie—"