As I left the dining-hall, I saw young women with duster caps on their heads, leaning out of dormitory windows shaking rugs; others I found hurrying down to other dormitories with bundles of laundry. When I arrived in Pungo Hall, I was greeted with the thumping of brushes, the clatter of furniture, and the shouts of the men as they called to one another above the clouds of dust that were being hurled from the rooms into the hallway.
A knock came on my door as I started to sweep the room, and Jason, the poet, poking his long neck around the corner of the door-post, asked in the most concerned way imaginable,
“Brother Priddy, is the kerosene can here?”
“Why—no, I haven’t seen it. What do you do with kerosene? Don’t you burn gas?”
Jason blushed, and then replied,
“Oh—we—er—use the kerosene for beds!”
Jason, the Poet, Looked in
“Beds?”
“To subdue those fiery creatures who domicile in beds!” he affirmed.