“Aw, come on, Mona—” Harry said.

But Mona and Red and Rufus were laughing.

“Big Sambo?” Rufus put both hands on his torn knee, shook his head. “That nigger’s all right. He may not be too smart and talk a little too much big talk—he owe Red and me money too. But what he do is all right.”

I couldn’t help thinking that though maybe Big Sambo had more weight on him than Rufus, Red, or Harry—or Mona for that matter, because she was pretty big—Rufus and Red, at any rate, were a good bit taller.

“You see?” Harry said again. “All we know, that boy maybe wouldn’t have no place to sleep if Big Sambo hadn’t took him in.”

“Yeah,” Red echoed Rufus, and he almost sounded a little drunk, leaning there on Rufus’s shoulder, “Big Sambo’s a good nigger.”

“Better nigger’n I am.” Rufus nodded.

“Well, Rufus Finks, I don’t know if that’s saying too much either.” But Mona was laughing again.

The harmonica cried, whined, and, over breathy choo-choo chords, dragged long, hot notes across the night. Harry cocked his head. “Andy can sure make that harpoon wail.” He grinned, looking over the boats.

“Sure can play,” Rufus agreed. “Used to wish’t I could play me a harmonica like that.” His hand was still working in his pocket.

“Harry still does,” Mona said. “He’s always talkin’ about how he’d like to play on a mouth organ like Andy do, every time the sun goes down and Andy starts in.”

“Whyn’t you ask him to teach you?” Red said.

Harry rubbed the side of his thumb on his chin and frowned, “Now I never thought of that. You think he would?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” Mona asked. “Andy’s a nice old boy. I betcha he’d try.”

“Well, I sure would like to learn,” Harry said. Suddenly he dropped his hand from Mona’s shoulder and slapped his thigh. “I’m gonna ask him! First thing tomorrow, I’m gonna go down there and get that black son of a bitch to teach me—I ain’t gonna be much good at first, now; but I bet I can learn!”

“Lord-y …!” Mona cried, the first part high and long, the last just laughter. “That’s gonna be something. Well, I put up with the rest of your shit, I guess I can put up with you tootlin’ and tweetlin’ around the scow too.”

“All I got to do is practice,” Harry said. “You tell me what else it takes to learn how to play some music? Go on, tell me what else.”

Mona was joggling the baby again, turning in a circle. “Lordy!” she exclaimed once more. “How I got myself hitched up with such a nigger-lovin’ white man, I’ll never know! Harry’s as bad as you, Red. He want to be a nigger so bad—” and stopped her turn, shoulder against Harry.

Harry settled his arm around her broad back. “I don’t wanna be no nigger—”