There was great rejoicing in Catfish Row. Peter had returned. The ten dollar bill which Archdale had given Porgy had worked the miracle. Except for the fact that the old negro’s shoulders drooped, and his grip on actualities seemed weakened by his confinement, there was no evidence to show that he had been absent. He had gone to the horse-dealer, and had found his ancient beast still awaiting a purchaser. Another contract had been signed which had started him off again on the eternal weekly payment. The German had driven back with the furniture, which Peter had docilely purchased for the second time. Again “The Great Emancipator” had been hung in his accustomed place above the mantel. Now, each morning, the old wagon rattled out over the cobbles, with the usual number of small, ecstatic, black bodies pendant from its dilapidated superstructure. “De buckra sho pots nigger figgered out tuh a cent!” said Peter philosophically, and even with a note of admiration in his voice. “Dem knows how much money wagon make in er week; an’ de horse man, de furniture man, an’ de lan’lo’d mek dey ’rangement’ accordin’. But I done lib long ’nough now tuh beat ’em all, ’cause money ain’t no use tuh a man attuh he done pass he prime, nohow.” When the old man had settled firmly back into his nook, and had an opportunity to look about him, he noticed a change in Porgy. “I tell yuh dat nigger happy,” he said to Serena, one evening while they were smoking their pipes together on her washing bench. “Go ’long wid yuh!” she retorted. “Dat ’oman ain’t de kin’ tuh mek man happy. It tek a killer like Crown tuh hol’ she down.” “Dat may be so,” agreed the old man sagely. “But Porgy don’ know dat yit. An’ ’side, ef a man is de kin’ wut needs er ’oman, he goin’ be happy regahdless. Him dress she up in he own eye till she look lak de Queen of Sheba tuh um. Porgy t’ink right now dat he gots a she-gawd in he room.” “He sho’ gots de kin’ wut goin’ gib um hell,” Serena commented cynically. “Dat ’oman ain’t fit tuh ’sociate wid. Much as I like Porgy, I wouldn’t swap t’ree wo’d wid she.” “Dat’s all so, Sister,” conceded Peter. “But yuh keep yo’ eye on Porgy. He usen tuh hate all dese chillen. Ain’t he? Now watch um. Ebery day w’en he come home he gots candy-ball fuh de crowd. An’ wut mo’, yistuhday I hyuh he an’ she singin’ tuhgedduh in dey room.” Serena motioned to him to be quiet. Porgy’s woman crossed the court to draw a bucket of water from the common tap near Serena’s corner. She was neatly dressed, and passed them as though they did not exist. Filling her pail, she swung it easily to her head, and, steadying it lightly with one hand, returned close to them with an air of cool scorn that produced entirely different effects upon her two observers. Serena watched her departure in silence.