“Porgy lucky,” said a low voice beside her. “Mus’ be yer gots two dollar dere fer um.” Sportin’ Life lifted his elegant trousers, so that the knees would not bag, and squatted on the flags at her side. He removed his stiff straw hat, with its bright band, and spun it between his hands. The moonlight was full upon his face, with its sinister, sensuous smile.
She looked at him squarely a moment, then said in a cold, level voice:
“I can’t ’member ebber meetin’ a nigger dat I like less dan I does you.”
“Thank yer kindly,” he replied, not in the least degree daunted. “But jus’ de same, I wants ter be frien’ wid yer. Me and you ain’t usen ter dese small-town slow ways. We ain’t been above seein’ night-life what is night-life, an’ I jus’ wants ter talk to you now and den; dat’s all.”
“I gots no time fuh talk,” she told him. “An’ wut mo’, I t’rough wid de kin’ ob nights you is t’inking ’bout.”
“No mo’ red-eye; none ’tall?” he queried. “Nebber gits t’irsty, eh?”
“Yes, Gawd knows, I does git t’irsty now and den,” she said impulsively; then added sharply, “But I done t’rough now, I tells yer; I done t’rough.”
She arose to go. “Yo’ kin’ mek me sick,” she told him; “an’ I ain’t wants tuh hab no mo’ talk wid yuh.”
He got spryly to his feet, and stood beside her. “Oh, come on, le’s let bygone be bygone, an’ be frien’.” Then his voice became low and ingratiating: “Come; gimme yer han’, Sister,” he said.
Acquiescent, but mystified, she held out her open palm.
He poured a little pile of white powder into it. There it lay in the moonlight, very clean and white on her dark skin. “Happy dus’!” she said, and her voice was like a gasp. “Take dat t’ing away, nigger. I t’rough wid um, I tells yuh.” But she did not turn her hand over and let it fall upon the ground.
“Jus’ a little touch fer ole time sake,” he whispered. “’Tain’t ’nough ter hurt er fly. An’ it ain’t goin’ ter cos’ yer one cent.”
She stood a moment longer, and her hand trembled, spilling a few grains between her fingers. Then suddenly she clapped her palm over her mouth. When she took it away it was quite empty.
Sportin’ Life heaved a sigh of relief, turned and leant against the wall--and waited.
In the corner by Serena’s bench the party was breaking up. Only a few women were left, and instead of the blur of general talk, remarks leapt clear. They were discussing the crap game that had just closed.