Chicken-Volsin tried to shame him about his appearance, but Gussie assured him that he could sit by Carmelite’s stove and dry out before he went in the front room “munks de people.”
“Some mens sho is foolish ’bout goin’ wid wimmins,” Volsin twitted.
“’Tain’ de wimmins takin’ me to Carmelite house,” Gussie explained. “It’s dem quilts she rafflin’.... I ain’ give Aun’ Fisky nothin’ for so long, I wan’ bring ’uh home somh’n nice to make up for it.... An’ two or three dimes ain’ goin’ break nobody. So da’s w’at I’m goin’ for.”
Chicken-Volsin accepted the excuse without further comment, and offered him another friendly drink. Gussie swallowed the whiskey with relish, and seeming to have forgotten his discomfort, started to go.
Chicken-Volsin walked to the door with him and saw him go out in the rain. He stood watching him running across the street, and laughed to think what a fool Gussie was, exposing himself to such weather “for nothin’ but one li’l ole raggedy quilt.”
On reaching Carmelite’s house, Gussie pushed the gate open hurriedly, and ran up the steps, stamping his feet loudly on the gallery, trying to dry them. Carmelite was in the kitchen, and hearing the strange noise, she came out to see who had arrived. As she entered the room, the front door flew open unceremoniously, and she saw Gussie lunge into the room; his shoes covered with mud, and rillets of water running from his clothing and dripping from his cap, all over her neat, well-scrubbed floor.
She looked at him, filled with consternation, struggling for appropriate speech.
“Look! ole ugly w’ite nigger.... Is you done los’ yo’ good mind?” She almost shouted. “W’at you mean, comin’ up in my house dis-away?... Wettin’ up all my funnuchuh, an’ trackin’ dirt all ove’ my nice clean flo’ wid yo’ big ole muddy shoes?... Git out o’ hyuh an’ go whah you b’long!... Nobody ain’ ax you to come hyuh, no-how.”
“Carmelite, don’ holluh at me like dat,” Gussie appealed to her quietly. “Lemme git to de kitchen an’ set by de stove, an’ git dry befo’ people start to come an’ ketch me lookin’ like dis.... Mizabul as you see me hyuh, wid all dese wet clo’se on.”
“Who?” Carmelite shouted with indignation. “You ain’ think you goin’ stay hyuh tonight an’ go munks people, trampy-lookin’ an’ lavadated as you is?... Who?... Gussie, you mus’ be a fool!... So you better make up yo’ min’ to go ’way from hyuh right now; an’ no mo’ talkin’ ’bout it.... You hyeah w’at I say?”