The marine continued to stare at him. "I'll git you yet," he said, "I'll git you yet, Smarty, don't kid yourself." And he slowly moved on.
The boy got up. The sun kept up its irrepressible sizzling. The men minded their business.
Ballet, sulking, aware of the marine on the stony hedge, aware of the red, menacing eyes glued on him, on every single move he made, furtively broke rocks.
"Boy, yo' ain't gwine t' wuk teeday, ni'? Git up!"
Exhausted by the orgy of work and even-song, Ballet snored, rolled, half asleep.
"Get up, ni' yo' ain't hear de korchee blowin' fi' go to wuk, ni?"
"Ugh—ooo—ooo—"
"Yo' ent hear me, ni? Um is six o'clock, boy, get up befo' yo' is late. Yo' too lazy, get up, a big, lazy boy lik' yo'—"