NEGRESSES ARRESTED

Harrietta Williams and Maudel Smothers, two young negresses, were arrested last night on Pearl Street for street-walking. They were brought before Judge Brinton and fined ten dollars and costs.

“What does that mean, ma—street-walking?” the child asked, but his grandmother raised her apron to her eyes and stumbled into the house. Sandy stopped, perplexed at the meaning of the article, at his aunt’s arrest, at his grandmother’s horror. Then he followed Hager, the open newspaper still in his hands, and found her standing at the window in the kitchen, crying. Racking sobs were shaking her body and the boy, who had never seen an old person weep like that before, was terribly afraid. He didn’t know that grown-up people cried, except at funerals, where it was the proper thing to do. He didn’t know they ever cried alone, by themselves in their own houses.

“I’m gonna get Sister Johnson,” he said, dropping the paper on the floor. “I’m gonna get Sister Johnson quick!”

“No, honey, don’t get her,” stammered the old woman. “She can’t help us none, chile. Can’t nobody help us . . . but de Lawd.”

In the dusk Sandy saw that his grandmother was trying hard to make her lips speak plainly and to control her sobs.

“Let’s we pray, son, fo’ yo’ po’ lost Aunt Harriett—fo’ ma own baby chile, what’s done turned from de light an’ is walkin’ in darkness.”

She dropped on her knees near the kitchen-stove with her arms on the seat of a chair and her head bowed. Sandy got on his knees, too, and while his grandmother prayed aloud for the body and soul of her daughter, the boy repeated over and over in his mind: “I wish you’d come home, Aunt Harrie. It’s lonesome around here! Gee, I wish you’d come home.”

XX. HEY, BOY!

In the lobby of the Drummer’s Hotel there were six large brass spittoons—one in the centre of the place, one in each corner, and one near the clerk’s desk. It was Sandy’s duty to clean these spittoons. Every evening that winter after school he came in the back door of the hotel, put his books in the closet where he kept his brooms and cleaning rags, swept the two short upper halls and the two flights of stairs, swept the lobby and dusted, then took the spittoons, emptied their slimy contents into the alley, rinsed them out, and polished them until they shone as brightly as if they were made of gold. Except for the stench of emptying them, Sandy rather liked this job. He always felt very proud of himself when, about six o’clock, he could look around the dingy old lobby and see the six gleaming brass bowls catching the glow of the electric lamps on their shining surfaces before they were again covered with spit. The thought that he himself had created this brightness with his own hands, aided by a can of brass-polish, never failed to make Sandy happy.