Greasy-faced children popped-the-whip through the crowd, and babies lunched at their mothers’ breasts.
In a far corner of the square, the Negroes sat quietly in the sun, dining on sardines, crackers, and the more vivid flavors of Nehi Cola.
Mr. Dolphus Raymond sat with them. “Jem,” said Dill, “he’s drinkin‘ out of a sack.”
Mr. Dolphus Raymond seemed to be so doing: two yellow drugstore straws ran from his mouth to the depths of a brown paper bag.
“Ain’t ever seen anybody do that,” murmured Dill. “How does he keep what’s in it in it?”
Jem giggled. “He’s got a Co-Cola bottle full of whiskey in there.
That’s so’s not to upset the ladies. You’ll see him sip it all afternoon, he’ll step out for a while and fill it back up.”
“Why’s he sittin‘ with the colored folks?” “Always does.
He likes ‘em better’n he likes us, I reckon. Lives by himself way down near the county line.
He’s got a colored woman and all sorts of mixed chillun. Show you some of ’em if we see ‘em.”
“He doesn’t look like trash,” said Dill. “He’s not, he owns all one side of the riverbank down there, and he’s from a real old family to boot.”
“Then why does he do like that?” “That’s just his way,” said Jem.
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