It was a glorious moment. He knew that he was soloist supreme; that the song was his individual possession, and nobody would venture to sing it with him. He had them in his power. He would make Felo listen, whether or no. Almost rapturously he went on:
“Go ’long, moon,
I want you to th’ow yo’ light behin’ de ’simmon tree.
P’int de road
So her w’ats comin’ hyuh to meet me’ll see.
Th’ow yo’ shadders kind o’ fancy,
Des for me an’ my Nancy,
Her w’at you hyeah come singin’ yonder in de lane.”
Having reached the end of the verse, his eyes skimmed the room for looks of approval. Several of the listeners were smiling appreciatively. Drawing a deep breath, he extended his chest imposingly, and went on with the chorus: