“‘Sweeng low! Sweet Char-ee-yut!
Comin’ fo’ t’kyah me ho-o-o-ome.
Swee-eng low, swee-et Char-ee-yut!
Comin’ fo’ t’kyah me home!’”
The two were a strange contrast as they sang, the negro child swaying with the emotionalism of her race and her voice dropping instinctively to a soft alto accompaniment to the other’s rigid soprano, and lending itself to subtle half-tones and minor cadences.
A twig snapped under Valiant’s foot. The singers faced about and saw them. Both scrambled to their feet, the black girl to look at them with a wide self-conscious grin. Rickey, tossing her short hair back from her freckled face, came toward them.
“My goodness, Miss Shirley,” she said, “we didn’t see you at all.” She looked at Valiant. “Are you the man that’s going to fix up Damory Court?” she inquired, without any tedious formalities.
“Yes,” said Valiant.
“Well,” she said critically, “you’ve got your job cut out for you. But I should say you’re the kind to do it.”
“Rickey!” Shirley’s voice tried to be stern, but there was a hint of laughter in it.
“What did I say now?” inquired Rickey. “I’m sure I meant it to be complimentary.”
“It was,” said Valiant. “I shall try to deserve your good opinion.”