"You mustn't eat any more marl, yo' hear?" he turned to her. "It will make yo' belly hard."
"Yes ... pappy."
Throwing eyes up at him—white, shiny, appealing—Beryl guided the food into her mouth. The hand that did the act was still white with the dust of the marl. All up along the elbow. Even around her little mouth the white, telltale marks remained.
Drying the bowl of the last bit of grease, Coggins was completely absorbed in his task. He could hear Sissie scraping the iron pot and trying to fling from the spoon the stiff, overcooked corn meal which had stuck to it. Scraping the pan of its very bottom, Ada and Rufus fought like two mad dogs.
"You, Miss Ada, yo' better don't bore a hole in dat pan, gimme heah!"
"But, Mahmie, I ain't finish."
Picking at her food, Beryl, the dainty one, ate sparingly....
Once a day the Rums ate. At dusk, curve of crimson gold in the sensuous tropic sky, they had tea. English to a degree, it was a rite absurdly regal. Pauperized native blacks clung to the utmost vestiges of the Crown. Too, it was more than a notion for a black cane hole digger to face the turmoil of a hoe or fork or "bill"—zigaboo word for cutlass—on a bare cup of molasses coffee.
III
"Lahd 'a' massie...."