coffee in Uneeda Lunch. The warm good ink-smell beats in rich waves into the street: a whistling train howls off into the Springtime South.
By the cool orchards in the dark the paper-carriers go. The copper legs of negresses in their dark dens stir. The creek brawls cleanly.
A new one, Number 6, heard boys speak of Foxy:
“Who’s Foxy?” asked Number 6.
“Foxy’s a bastard, Number 6. Don’t let him catch you.”
“The bastard caught me three times last week. In the Greek’s every time. Why can’t they let us eat?”
Number 3 thought of Friday morning—he had the Niggertown route.
“How many—3?”
“One hundred and sixty-two.”
“How many Dead Heads you got, son?” said Mr. Randall cynically. “Do you ever try to collect from them?” he added, thumbing through the book.
“He takes it out in Poon-Tang,” said Foxy, grinning, “A week’s subscription free for a dose.”
“What you got to say about it?” asked Number 3 belligerently. “You’ve been knocking down on them for six years.”
“Jazz’em all if you like,” said Randall, “but get the money. Ben, I want you to go round with him Saturday.”
Ben laughed silently and cynically into the air:
“Oh, my God!” he said. “Do you expect me to check up on the little thug? He’s been knocking down on you for the last six months.”
“All right! All right!” said Randall, annoyed. “That’s what I want you to find out.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Randall,” said Ben contemptuously, “he’s got niggers on that book who’ve been dead for five years. That’s what you get for keeping every little crook that comes along.”
“If you don’t get a move on, 3, I’ll give your route to another boy,” said Randall.
“Hell, get another boy. I don’t care,” said Number 3, toughly.
