The town was in a generous mood. Again and again the bottom of Porgy’s cup gave forth its sharp, grateful click as a coin struck it and settled. But the cripple had not even his slow glance of thanks for his benefactors on that flashing autumn morning. Always he kept veiled, apprehensive eyes directed either up or down the street, or lifted frightened glances to the sky, as though fearing what he might see there. At noon a white man stopped before him. But he did not drop a coin and pass on. After a moment, Porgy brought his gaze back, and looked up. The white man reached forward, and handed him a paper. “Dat fuh me?” asked Porgy, in a voice that shook. “You needn’t mind takin’ it,” the man assured him with a laugh. “It’s just a summons as witness to the Coroner’s inquest. You knew that nigger, Crown, didn’t you?” He evidently took Porgy’s silence for assent, for he went on. “Well, all you got to do is to view the body in the presence of the Coroner, tell him who it is, and he’ll take down all you say.” Porgy essayed speech, failed, tried again, and finally whispered: “I gots tuh go an’ look on Crown’ face wid all dem w’ite folks lookin’ at me. Dat it?” His voice was so piteous that the constable reassured him: “Oh, cheer up; it’s not so bad. I reckon you’ve seen a dead nigger before this. It will all be over in a few minutes.” “Dey ain’t goin’ be no nigger in dat room ’cept me?” Porgy asked. “Just you and Crown, if you still call him one.” After a moment Porgy asked: “I couldn’t jus’ bring a ’oman wid me? I couldn’t eben carry my--my ’oman?” “No,” said the white man_ positively. “Now I’ve got to be gettin’ along, I reckon. Just come over to the Court House in half an hour, and I’ll meet you and take you in. Only be sure to come. If you don’t show up it’s jail for you, you know.” For a moment after the man had gone, Porgy sat immovable, with his eyes on the pavement. Then a sudden change swept over him. He cast one glance up and down the hard, clean street, walled by its uncompromising, many-eyed buildings. Then in a panic he clambered into his cart, gave a cruel twist to the tail of his astonished goat, and commenced a spasmodic, shambling race up Meeting House Road in the direction in which he knew that, miles away, the forests lay. § To many, the scene which ensued on the upper Meeting House Road stands out as an exquisitely humorous episode, to be told and retold with touching up of high lights and artistic embellishments. To these, in the eyes of whom the negro is wholly humorous, per se, there was not the omission of a single conventional and readily recognizable stage property. For, after all, what could have been funnier than an entirely serious race between a negro in a dilapidated goat-cart, and the municipality’s shining new patrol wagon, fully officered and clanging its bell for the crowds to hear as it came.