[She pours out some medicine and gives it to her.
AUNT CANDACE. Some dese days I's gwine be carried off by 'em, chile; I's ol' an' po'ly, ol' an' po'ly now. Dem debbils gwine git me yit.
[She mumbles.
MARY. No, they ain't, aunty. I ain't goin' to let 'em.
[There is a knock at the door, and stamping of feet.
AUNT CANDACE. What's dat?
MARY. Nothin'. Somebody at the door. [The low strumming of guitar is heard.] That's Jim. Come in!
[Jim Matthews enters. He is a young negro about twenty-two years old, and as black as his African ancestors. He carries a guitar slung over his shoulders, wears an old derby hat, tan shirt with a dark tie, well-worn blue suit, the coat of which comes to his knees, and tan shoes, slashed along the sides to make room for his feet. As he comes in he pulls off his hat and smiles genially, showing his white teeth. With better clothes he might call himself a spo't.
JIM. Good even', ladies.
[He lays his derby an the bed.