A big, fat, brown-skinned man appeared presently, and bade them enter.
When they were inside they met another—a woman, and she was fatter still. It was the man's wife, and she appeared to be in charge, from her statements regarding the rental. They were from Alabama, and one glance was sufficient to show they were not creole.
Wyeth bought some beer, and the fat man went for it with a pitcher. He returned with as much for a dime, as would have cost twenty-five cents in Effingham. He said so to the other, and then the others laughed and said:
"This is the city where they drink it. They drink more here than anywhere else in the world." Wyeth recalled a year before—but then these people had seen only a small part of the world, as their conversation later revealed, and, of course—but it didn't matter.
"You genemens goin' to the dance?" said the woman.
"To the dance?" Wyeth repeated. "This is Sunday!"
They smiled at him now—all of them—and then said:
"Sunday is the day of sport in this town. More dances occur on Sunday than any other day."
Wyeth whistled.
"This is the creole city," and they smiled again.