Came a general nodding and agreement of soft, blurry voices.
"'At sho whut it say, black man!"
"Sho do!"
"Lawd God loves a nigger on a street corner same as He do a millionaire in a six-cylinder, Peter."
"Sho do, black man; but He's jes about de onlies' thing on uth 'at do."
"Well, I don' know," came a troubled rejoinder. "Thaiuh 's de debbil, ketchin' mo' niggers nowadays dan he do white men, I 'fo' Gawd b'liebes."
"Well, dat's because dey is so many mo' niggers dan dey is white folks," put in a philosopher.
"Whut you say 'bout dat, Brudder Peter?" inquired the Persimmon, seriously. None of this discussion was either derision or burlesque. None of the crowd had the slightest feeling that these questions were not just as practical and important as the suggestion that they all go to work.
When Peter realized how their ignorant and undisciplined thoughts flowed off into absurdities, and that they were entirely unaware of it, it brought a great depression to his heart. He held up a hand with an earnestness that caught their vagrant attention.
"Listen!" he pleaded. "Can't you see how much there is for us black folks to do, and what little we have done?"