Dewey saw Bradshaw nod; of course he knew, everybody knew it; it was a song liberal-minded third-grade music teachers in New York, Chicago, Des Moines, San Francisco, and all the towns in between had their pupils sing to acquaint them with Negro culture; in Cambridge it was sung whenever anyone with a guitar who prided himself as a folk singer got together with a group of people who considered themselves folklorists; it was known all over the country, had been sung for a long time. And Dewey realized that Bradshaw’s nod had signified a knowledge of something else; he knew now and could understand why the Negroes had left without waiting or needing any organizations or leadership.

“Well then,” the boy started and then his eyes narrowed. “Sing it.”

Bradshaw sang softly in an off-key, near monotone:

Come, come, come to your mammy,

My curly-headed pickaninny boy.

Come, come tell me your troubles

And mammy will give you joy.

I know what you need is a kiss on the cheek,

To sooth all the bad dreams that on you sneak—

So,

Come, come, come to your mammy,

My curly-headed pickaninny boy.

It was a fast song, with a cakewalk beat, and sounded strange coming from Bradshaw because, with his British accent, he pronounced all the words correctly without a trace of a Negro accent. The men did not like it that way and began to grumble. “He ain’t very good.”

The boy gripped him by the throat. “This time sing it like a nigger, nigger.”

The fat man wanted something else: “Yeah, and dance too!”

“And sing loud so I can hear it,” shouted someone at the edge of the crowd.

Dewey sat straining against the ropes, but could not free himself. He had been yelling for them to stop, but no one paid any attention.

Bradshaw started again, this time hopping comically from one foot to the other, his stomach jouncing. He had half-finished when the boy stepped in front of him and punched him full in the face. “You stink! Get him in the car. We might as well use his car to take him. It’s bigger. More of us can go.” The boy and the fat man grabbed Bradshaw by the shoulders, half carried, half dragged him, almost over Dewey, back to the car, tossed him in.