"White folks celebratin' de victory!" he replied enthusiastically, placing the tray on the table.
"It's only seven o'clock. The election returns can't be in yet?"
"Yassam! Hit's all over but de shoutin'!"
Cleo moved a step closer:
"The major has won?"
"Yassam! Yassam!" Andy answered with loud good humor, as he began to polish a glass with a napkin. "Yassam, I des come frum dar. De news done come in. Dey hain't gwine ter 'low de niggers ter vote no mo', 'ceptin they kin read an' write—an' den dey won't let 'em!"
He held one of the shining glasses up to the light, examined it with judicial care and continued in tones of resignation:
"Don't make no diffrunce ter me, dough!—I hain't nebber got nuttin' fer my vote nohow, 'ceptin' once when er politicioner shoved er box er cigars at me"—he chuckled—"an' den, by golly, I had ter be a gemman, I couldn't grab er whole handful—I des tuck four!"
Cleo moved impatiently and glared at the tray:
"What on earth did you bring all that stuff for? The whole mob are not coming here, are they?"