“Oh, Charlie, haven’t you any shame?” giggled Mabel. “I never in all my life heard of any one suggesting singing or playing himself. It just isn’t the thing. You are supposed to blush furiously and shake your head the first time you are asked. Of course, you are asked again, then you say that you haven’t got your music or you aren’t in voice or your hands are chapped. On the third request, you allow yourself to be dragged unwillingly to the piano or the center of the room, according to your talent. And here you blatantly nominate yourself. I blush for you, I blush for you.”
“Don’t pay any attention to her, Charlie,” urged Frances. “I didn’t know singing was among your accomplishments. While I tremble at the result, we are all brave souls and most humbly I beseech you sing.”
“I may not be a Caruso or a Martinelli, but I do know some plantation songs, just as everybody below the Mason-Dixon line does, and coupled with the three cords I know on the banjo I can give a very creditable performance. Am I among friends?”
With a flourish of the banjo and a reckless expenditure of his three cords, Charlie began in an effectively low voice:
“De gray owl sing fum de chimbly top:
‘Who-who-is-you-oo?’
En I say: ‘Good Lawd, hit’s des po’ me,
En I ain’t quite ready fer de Jasper Sea;
I’m po’ en sinful, en you ’lowed I’d be;
Oh, wait, good Lawd, ’twell termorrer!’