“Hold it, fellows. I just thought of something.” All of the men had stopped now, were standing up straight, listening. Bradshaw lay groaning softly at their feet. “You fellows know this is our last nigger? Just think on that. Our last nigger, ever. There won’t be no more after this, and no more singing and dancing and laughing. The only niggers we’ll ever see, unless we go over into Mississippi or Alabama, will be on the television and they don’t sing none of the old songs, or do the old dances no more. They’s high-class niggers with white wives and big cars. I been thinking that while we still got one, we ought to get him to do one of the old songs for us.”

The men stood blankly, not quite understanding what the boy was talking about, trying to decide if he was serious or not. A few, who wanted to get on with what they had started, looked down at Bradshaw.

Then the fat man spoke up. “I get your meaning, Bobby-Joe. I get your meaning.” He started to laugh uproariously. “Our last nigger! That’s good. He weren’t really ours when he come down in his big car, but he is now, and we can have him do anything we want him to do.”

“That’s right, Mister Stewart.” He joined the fat man in laughter. One by one, so did the other men: “I get his meaning.”

The boy pushed his way through the gathering and with the fat man’s help, tugged Bradshaw to his feet.

Dewey was on his feet too, realizing they were not stopping, but rather drawing out the ritual. “You can’t do that to him!” He rushed into the mob, his head down, his fists swinging, but was caught tight just short of the boy by two or three men.

The boy looked up. “Somebody get a rope from Thomason’s and tie up this nigger-lover. If we hurt him we WILL be in trouble. His pa’ll put us off his land.” Several men held Dewey while someone ran for the rope, returned; they bound him hand and foot and pushed him down to the pavement.

“Now let’s get on with our show. What can you do, nigger? All you niggers can do something.”

Bradshaw stood dazed and bleeding between the boy and the fat man, his clothes ripped and rumpled, his glasses, miraculously still on his nose, a bit crooked. He did not answer.

“Talk now! What do you know?”

The fat man balled his fist. “I’ll make him talk.”

“No, Mister Stewart, there’ll be time enough for that. Right now, he’s being good enough to entertain us. What do you know? Do you know ‘Curly-Headed Pickaninny Boy’?”