There were no community houses in Stanton and no recreation centers for young men except the Y.M.C.A., which was closed to you if you were not a white boy; so, for the Negro youths of the town, Cudge Windsor’s pool hall was the evening meeting-place. There one could play billiards, shoot dice in a back room, or sit in summer on the two long benches outside, talking and looking at the girls as they passed. In good weather these benches were crowded all the time.

Next door to the pool hall was Cudge Windsor’s lunchroom. Of course, the best colored people did not patronize Cudge’s, even though his business was not in the Bottoms. It was located on Pearl Street, some three or four blocks before that thoroughfare plunged across the tracks into the low terrain of tinkling pianos and ladies who loved for cash. But since Cudge catered to what Mr. Siles called “the common element,” the best people stayed away.

After months of bookishness and subjection to Tempy’s prim plans for his improvement, Sandy found the pool hall an easy and amusing place in which to pass time. It was better than the movies, where people on the screen were only shadows. And it was much better than the Episcopal Church, with its stoop-shouldered rector, for here at Cudge’s everybody was alive, and the girls who passed in front swinging their arms and grinning at the men were warm-bodied and gay, while the boys rolling dice in the rear room or playing pool at the tables were loud-mouthed and careless. Life sat easily on their muscular shoulders.

Adventurers and vagabonds who passed through Stanton on the main line would often drop in at Cudge’s to play a game or get a bite to eat, and many times on summer nights reckless black boys, a long way from home, kept the natives entertained with tales of the road, or trips on side-door Pullmans, and of far-off cities where things were easy and women generous. They had a song that went:

O, the gals in Texas,
They never be’s unkind.
They feeds their men an’
Buys ’em gin an’ wine.
But these women in Stanton,
Their hearts is hard an’ cold.
When you’s out of a job, they
Denies you jelly roll.

Then, often, arguments would begin⁠—boastings, proving and fending; or telling of exploits with guns, knives, and razors, with cops and detectives, with evil women and wicked men; out-bragging and out-lying one another, all talking at once. Sometimes they would create a racket that could be heard for blocks. To the uninitiated it would seem that a fight was imminent. But underneath, all was good-natured and friendly⁠—and through and above everything went laughter. No matter how belligerent or lewd their talk was, or how sordid the tales they told⁠—of dangerous pleasures and strange perversities⁠—these black men laughed. That must be the reason, thought Sandy, why poverty-stricken old Negroes like Uncle Dan Givens lived so long⁠—because to them, no matter how hard life might be, it was not without laughter.

Uncle Dan was the world’s champion liar, Cudge Windsor said, and the jolly old man’s unending flow of fabulous reminiscences were entertaining enough to earn him a frequent meal in Cudge’s lunchroom or a drink of licker from the patrons of the pool hall, who liked to start the old fellow talking.

One August evening when Tempy was away attending a convention of the Midwest Colored Women’s Clubs, Sandy and Buster, Uncle Dan, Jimmy Lane, and Jap Logan sat until late with a big group of youngsters in front of the pool hall watching the girls go by. A particularly pretty high yellow damsel passed in a thin cool dress of flowered voile, trailing the sweetness of powder and perfume behind her.

“Dog-gone my soul!” yelled Jimmy Lane. “Just gimme a bone and lemme be your dog⁠—I mean your salty dog!” But the girl, pretending not to hear, strolled leisurely on, followed by a train of compliments from the pool-hall benches.

“Sweet mama Venus!” cried a tall raw-bony boy, gazing after her longingly.

“If angels come like that, lemme go to heaven⁠—and if they don’t, lemme be lost to glory!” Jap exclaimed.

“Shut up, Jap! What you know ’bout women?” asked Uncle Dan, leaning forward on his cane to interrupt the comments. “Here you-all is, ain’t knee-high to ducks yit, an’ talkin’ ’bout womens! Shut up, all o’ you! Nary one o’ you’s past sebenteen, but when I were yo’ age⁠—Hee! Hee! You-all want to know what dey called me when I were yo’ age?” The old man warmed to his tale. “Dey called me de ‘stud nigger’! Yes, dey did! On ’count o’ de kind o’ slavery-time work I was doin’⁠—I were breedin’ babies fo’ to sell!”

“Another lie!” said Jap.

“No, ’tain’t, boy! You listen here to what I’s gwine tell you. I were de onliest real healthy nigger buck ma white folks had on de plantation, an’ dese was ole po’ white folks what can’t ’ford to buy many slaves, so dey figures to raise a heap o’ darky babies an’ sell ’em later on⁠—dat’s why dey made me de breeder.⁠ ⁠… Hee! Hee!⁠ ⁠… An’ I sho breeded a gang o’ pickaninnies, too! But I were young then, jest like you-all is, an’ I ain’t had a pint o’ sense⁠—laying wid de womens all night, ever’ night.”

“Yes, we believe you,” drawled Jimmy.

“An’ it warn’t no time befo’ little yaller chillens an’ black chillens an’ red chillens an’ all kinds o’ chillens was runnin’ round de yard eatin’ out o’ de hog-pen an’ a-callin’ me pappy.⁠ ⁠… An’ here I is today gwine on ninety-three year ole an’ I done outlived ’em all. Dat is, I done outlived all I ever were able to keep track on after de war, ’cause we darkies sho scattered once we was free! Yes, sah! But befo’ de fightin’ ended I done been pappy to forty-nine chillens⁠—an’ thirty-three of ’em were boys!”

“Aw, I know you’re lying now, Uncle Dan,” Jimmy laughed.

“No, I ain’t, sah!⁠ ⁠… Hee! Hee!⁠ ⁠… I were a great one when I were young! Yes, sah!” The old man went on undaunted. “I went an’ snuck off to a dance one night, me an’ nudder boy, went ’way ovah in Macon County at ole man Laird’s plantation, who been a bitter enemy to our white folks. Did I ever tell you ’bout it? We took one o’ ole massa’s best hosses out de barn to ride, after he done gone to his bed.⁠ ⁠… Well, sah! It were late when we got started, an’ we rid dat hoss lickety-split uphill an’ down holler, ovah de crick an’ past de mill, me an’ ma buddy both on his back, through de canebrake an’ up anudder hill, till he wobble an’ foam at de mouth like he’s ’bout to drap. When we git to de dance, long ’bout midnight, we jump off dis hoss an’ ties him to a post an’ goes in de cabin whar de music were⁠—an’ de function were gwine on big. Man! We grabs ourselves a gal an’ dance till de moon riz, kickin’ up our heels an’ callin’ figgers, an’ jest havin’ a scrumptious time. Ay, Lawd! We sho did dance!⁠ ⁠… Well, come ’long ’bout two o’clock in de mawnin’, niggers all leavin’, an’ we goes out in de yard to git on dis hoss what we had left standin’ at de post.⁠ ⁠… An’ Lawd have mercy⁠—de hoss were dead! Yes, sah! He done fell down right whar he were tied, eyeballs rolled back, mouth a-foamin’, an’ were stone-dead!⁠ ⁠… Well, we ain’t knowed how we gwine git home ner what we gwine do ’bout massa’s hoss⁠—an’ we was skeered, Lawdy! ’Cause we know he beat us to death if he find out we done rid his best hoss anyhow⁠—let lone ridin’ de crittur to death.⁠ ⁠… An’ all de low-down Macon niggers what was at de party was whaw-whawin’ fit to kill, laughin’ ’cause it were so funny to see us gittin’ ready to git on our hoss an’ de hoss were dead!⁠ ⁠… Well, sah, me an’ ma buddy ain’t wasted no time. We took dat animule up by de hind legs an’ we drug him all de way home to massa’s plantation befo’ day! We sho did! Uphill an’ down holler, sixteen miles! Yes, sah! An’ put dat damn hoss back in massa’s barn like he war befo’ we left. An’ when de sun riz, me an’ ma buddy were in de slavery quarters sleepin’ sweet an’ lowly-like as if we ain’t been nowhar.⁠ ⁠… De next day old massa ’maze how dat hoss die all tied up in his stall wid his halter on! An’ we niggers ’maze, too, when we heard dat massa’s hoss been dead, ’cause we ain’t knowed a thing ’bout it. No, sah! Ain’t none o’ us niggers knowed a thing! Hee! Hee! Not a thing!”

“Weren’t you scared?” asked Sandy.

“Sho, we was scared,” said Uncle Dan, “but we ain’t act like it. Niggers was smart in them days.”

“They’re still smart,” said Jap Logan, “if they can lie like you.”

“I mean!” said Buster.

“Uncle Dan’s the world’s champeen liar,” drawled a tall lanky boy. “Come on, let’s chip in and buy him a sandwich, ’cause he’s lied enough fo’ one evening.”

They soon crowded into the lunchroom and sat on stools at the counter ordering soda or ice-cream from the fat good-natured waitress. While they were eating, a gambler bolted in from the back room of the pool hall with a handful of coins he had just won.

“Gonna feed ma belly while I got it in ma hand,” he shouted. “Can’t tell when I might lose, ’cause de dice is runnin’ they own way tonight. Say, Mattie,” he yelled, “tell chef to gimme a beefsteak all beat up like Jim Jeffries, cup o’ coffee strong as Jack Johnson, an’ come flyin’ like a airship so I can get back in the game. Tell that kitchen buggar sweet-papa Stingaree’s out here!”

“All right, keep yo’ collar on,” said Mattie. “De steak’s got to be cooked.”

“What you want, Uncle Dan?” yelled the gambler to the old man. “While I’s winnin’, might as well feed you, too. Take some ham and cabbage or something. That sandwich ain’t ’nough to fill you up.”

Uncle Dan accepted a plate of spareribs, and Stingaree threw down a pile of nickels on the counter.

“Injuns an’ buffaloes,” he said loudly. “Two things de white folks done killed, so they puts ’em on de backs o’ nickels.⁠ ⁠… Rush up that steak there, gal, I’s hongry!”

Sandy finished his drink and bought a copy of the Chicago Defender, the World’s Greatest Negro Weekly, which was sold at the counter. Across the front in big red letters there was a headline: Negro Boy Lynched. There was also an account of a race riot in a Northern industrial city. On the theatrical page a picture of pretty Baby Alice Whitman, the tap-dancer, attracted his attention, and he read a few of the items there concerning colored shows; but as he was about to turn the page, a little article in the bottom corner made him pause and put the paper down on the counter.

Actress Makes Hit

St. Louis, MO, Aug. 3: Harrietta Williams, sensational young blues-singer, has been packing the Booker Washington Theatre to the doors here this week. Jones and Jones are the headliners for the all-colored vaudeville bill, but the singing of Miss Williams has been the outstanding drawing card. She is being held over for a continued engagement, with Billy Sanderlee at the piano.

“Billy Sanderlee,” said Buster, who was looking over Sandy’s shoulder. “That’s that freckled-faced yellow guy who used to play for dances around here, isn’t it? He could really beat a piano to death, all right!”

“Sure could,” replied Sandy. “Gee, they must make a great team together, ’cause my Aunt Harrie can certainly sing and dance!”

“Ain’t the only thing she can do!” bellowed the gambler, swallowing a huge chunk of steak. “Yo’ Aunt Harrie’s a whang, son!”

“Shut yo’ mouth!” said Uncle Dan.