“Sho’ e is!” Big Sue agreed. “All dat breed is mannersable people. Dat’s how come I took so much pains to git em.”
“Dat is nice,” Uncle Bill approved. “I ever did like people to hab manners.”
“Me too! I can’ stan’ no-manners people, specially a no-manners boy-chile. I’m all de time tellin’ Leah, Brudge’ll git hung if e lives. Brudge is too no-manners. I’d skin em if e was my own.”
The noise from the birth-night supper grew thicker and stronger as they got nearer the Quarters. Every beat of the drum throbbed unbroken by the laughter and singing and loud-ringing talk. Breeze’s feet stepped with the time it marked, and so did Uncle Bill’s and Big Sue’s.
The Quarter houses were all solid darkness but one, and its doorway was choked with people pushing in and out; its front yard hidden by a great ring of marching couples, that wheeled slowly around a high-reaching fire. These were holding hands, laughing into one another’s faces, their feet plumping down with flat-footed steps that raised the dust, or cutting little extra fancy hops besides the steady tramping bidden by the drum.
Two big iron washpots sat side by side with the fire leaping high between them. Zeda stirred one with a long wooden paddle, and a short thick-set woman stirred the other. They added seasoning, stirred, tasted, added more seasoning, until a tall fellow, black as the night, and strong-looking as one of the oaks around them, broke through the ring and stepped up to the pots, and put his hand on Zeda’s shoulder. What he said was lost in the noise, but his teeth and eyes flashed in the red light as Zeda put a hand on each of his broad shoulders and quickly pushed him outside the ring again. The short woman took the steaming paddle out of the pot and shook it gaily at him, shouting to him to get a partner and march until the victuals were done and ready to sell instead of setting such a bad example for the young people.
The marchers laughed, and the drummer, a long-legged young man, dropped his sticks and yelled out, “How long befo’ supper, Ma! I’m done perished. I’m pure weak, I’m so hongry!”
Zeda stopped short in her tracks and yelled back to him, “Shut you’ mouth, Sherry! You ain’ perished, nothin’! You beat dat drum or Bina’ll put all two feets on you’ neck!”
The other woman pointed her paddle at him threateningly, shouting as she did it, “You’ ma is sho’ right, son! I wouldn’ pay you, not one cent to-night, if you don’ beat dat drum sweet as you kin! Keep de people marchin’ a while yet. I got a whole hog an’ a bushel o’ rice a-cookin’! Right in dese pots. I wouldn’ sell half if you don’ git ev’ybody good an’ hongry! Rattle dem sticks, Sherry! Rattle ’em like you was beatin’ a tune fo’ Joy to step by!”
This brought a shower of laughter and funny sayings and jokes as the crowd bantered Sherry about the way he beat the drum when Joy was here to march. But instead of answering a word, Sherry rolled the sticks softly on the drum’s head, making a low sobbing sound that held on and on, swelling, mounting until a battering roar made the air throb and hum, then he stopped off short with a sudden sharp drub.