was their efficiency in giving this flow of force moral and spiritual forms. That is the end of man; that is what is prefigured when a baby's hand reaches for the sun. But Peter considered his audience, and his thought stammered on his tongue. The Persimmon, with his protruding, half-asleep eyes, was saying:
“I don' know, Peter, as I 's so partic'lar 'bout makin' de mos' out'n dis worl'. You know de Bible say—hit say,”—here the Persimmon's voice dropped a tone lower, in unconscious imitation of negro preachers,—“la- ay not up yo' treasure on uth, wha moss do corrup', an' thieves break th'ugh an' steal.”
Came a general nodding and agreement of soft, blurry voices.
"'At sho whut it say, black man!”
“Sho do!”
“Lawd God loves a nigger on a street corner same as He do a millionaire in a six-cylinder, Peter.”
“Sho do, black man; but He's jes about de onlies' thing on uth 'at do.”
“Well, I don' know,” came a troubled rejoinder. “Thaiuh's de debbil, ketchin' mo' niggers nowadays dan he do white men, I 'fo' Gawd b'liebes.”
“Well, dat's because dey is so many mo' niggers dan dey is white folks,” put in a philosopher.
“Whut you say 'bout dat, Brudder Peter?” inquired the Persimmon, seriously. None of this discussion was either derision or burlesque. None of the crowd had the slightest feeling that these questions were not
