“Nope, no cream,” said the fat man.

“Well, gimme a fish sandwich then,” Sandy replied, feeling very proud because some kids were standing near, looking at him as he made his purchase like a grown man.

“Buy me one, too,” suggested a biscuit-colored little girl in a frilly dirty-white dress.

“I only got a dime,” Sandy said. “But you can have half of mine.” And he gallantly broke in two parts the double square of thick bread, with its hunk of greasy fish between, and gravely handed a portion to the grinning little girl.

“Thanks,” she said, running away with the bread and fish in her hands.

“Shame on you!” teased a small boy, rubbing his forefingers at Sandy. “You got a girl! You got a girl!”

“Go chase yourself!” Sandy replied casually, as he picked out the bones and smacked his lips on the sweet fried fish. The orchestra was playing another one-step, with the dancers going like shuttles across the floor. Sandy saw his Aunt Harriett and a slender yellow boy named Billy Sanderlee doing a series of lazy, intricate steps as they wound through the crowd from one end of the hall to the other. Certain less accomplished couples were watching them with admiration.

Sandy, when he had finished eating, decided to look for the wash-room, where he could rinse his hands, because they were greasy and smelled fishy. It was at the far corner of the hall. As he pushed open the door marked GENTS, a thick grey cloud of cigarette-smoke drifted out. The stench of urine and gin and a crowd of men talking, swearing, and drinking licker surrounded the little boy as he elbowed his way towards the wash-bowls. All the fellows were shouting loudly to one another and making fleshy remarks about the women they had danced with.

“Boy, you ought to try Velma,” a mahogany-brown boy yelled. “She sure can go.”

“Hell,” answered a whisky voice somewhere in the smoke. “That nappy-headed black woman? Gimme a high yaller for mine all de time. I can’t use no coal!”

“Well, de blacker de berry, de sweeter de juice,” protested a slick-haired ebony youth in the center of the place.... “Ain’t that right, sport?” he demanded of Sandy, grabbing him jokingly by the neck and picking him up.

“I guess it is,” said the child, scared, and the men laughed.

“Here, kid, buy yourself a drink,” the slick-headed boy said, slipping Sandy a nickel as he set him down gently at the door. “And be sure it’s pop—not gin.”

Outside, the youngster dried his wet hands on a handkerchief, blinked his smoky eyes, and immediately bought the soda, a red strawberry liquid in a long, thick bottle.

Suddenly and without warning the cornet blared at the other end of the hall in an ear-splitting wail: “Whaw! . . . Whaw! . . . Whaw! . . . Whaw!” and the snare-drum rolled in answer. A pause . . . then the loud brassy notes were repeated and the banjo came in, “Plinka, plink, plink,” like timid drops of rain after a terrific crash of thunder. Then quite casually, as though nothing had happened, the piano lazied into a slow drag, with all the other instruments following. And with the utmost nonchalance the drummer struck into time.