"Can you tell me who that Apollo was—and why he's stuck up here?"
"Catalogues twenty-five cents each, at the door," says the man.
"Well," I says, "I ain't got the quarter to spare. But I thought mebbe you knew."
"He was the Greek god of beauty and song," he says, stiff. And the next thing I knew I was standing there in front of the Greek god talking out loud. And I says:
"I'd like to twist the nose off your face, just because I've never heard of you before—nor you—nor you—nor you—nor you. Why ain't I never heard of you?"
I run for Mis' Bingy.
"Mis' Bingy," I says, "are you ready to go?"
She followed me without a word. Out on the steps she says, shaking:
"Which was it—Keddie or Carney?"
"It was neither," I says, "it was that smart white god in there, and all the rest of 'em. Mis' Bingy! Folks know about 'em. They know when they go there, and they know about pictures. I heard 'em talking. What's the reason we don't know?"