“Lawd, chile, don’ Ah know what’s what? Ah ain’t been workin’ aroun’ a hook-shop so long widout knowin’ ever’ little sound ’n’ whut it means.”

“Yo’s a great help to me now, yo’ ol’ witch! Whutcha paintin’ dese goddam pitchers fo’ anyhow? Yo’ jus’ drivin’ me t’ go upstairs an’ bust dat door ef yo’ keep it up.”

But Liza was too lost in her dreams to pay attention to Ida’s objections.

“Yes, Ah use t’ work in a high class call-house until dat district attorney man close ’em all up. He jus’ t’rew me outen a good job. Den Ah got to be a kep’ woman mahself. Ol’ Jonesy come along an’ Ah took up wid him an’ started livin’ wid him. He had plenty o’ money den. Ah was a pretty good-lookin’ gal in mah day.”

Big Ida began to get a trifle tired of old Liza Jones’ bragging about how well-kept she had been.

“Take yo’ withered gums to bed, Liza, an’ stop dis yere fabricatin’.”

But Liza droned on; she was like a swarm of locusts, there was no stopping her when she got started under the impetus of gin.

“Didn’ Ah see dat Money Johnson? Lawd, he’s a good lookin’ nigger. Ah don’ blame yo’, Ida. Ah knows Ah’d fight fo’ mah man. Old Jonesy was a good man himself. ’Course he didn’t hab no money lak Johnson. But money ain’t ever’thin’—’course it’s quite a lot—but not ever’thin’. Yes, chile, Jonesy was pretty good in his day.”

And so the night wore on. Liza finally rolled off to bed. At seven o’clock she got up and discovered that Big Ida had dropped off to sleep in the chair. She covered her up with a blanket and went into the kitchen to make some breakfast.

At eight o’clock, Ida woke up with a start. She sprang up.

“Liza! Liza! She ain’t done gone, is she? She ain’t got away on me?”

“C’am yo’self, c’am yo’self, woman! Everybody’s still sleepin’.”

Ida sat down and ate some breakfast rapidly, then she returned to her post at the parlor door. After a while she heard footsteps up above. She could distinguish the short quick steps of a woman and the heavy footfall of a man. She drew a sigh of relief. Presently her frayed nerves began to demand a stimulant, and a search of the closet revealed no more gin.

She sat down again and waited. About noon her system cried so hungrily for alcohol that she literally flew at Liza’s telephone. There were only two telephones in the whole house—Liza’s and one in the bootleggers’ flat now occupied by Johnson.

She called Nigger Gert’s. Gert answered the phone. Ida started in raving.

“Dis you, Gert? Dis is Ida. Oh, Lawd, Gert, sen’ me some gin. Ah gotta hab gin!”