But the man waited. The captain, seeing this, turned and said: "Well,
what do you want?"
"All I got to say, captain, is that you mustn't let any of them guys
argue with me again, for if they do I'll do the same thing over if you
give me fifty years for it. I just can't stand it to have a man argue
with me."
Silhouettes of Sunshine? France is full of them. There were the
fields full of a million blood-red poppies back in Brittany, and the
banks of old-gold broom blooming along a thousand stone walls; there
were the negro stevedores marching to work, winter and summer, rain or
shine, night or day, always whistling or singing as they marched, to
the wonderment of French and English alike. Their spirits never seemed
to be dampened. They always marched to music of their own making.
There was that baseball game, when an entire company of negroes,
watching their team play a white team, at the climax of the game when
one negro boy had knocked a home run, ran around the bases with him,
more than two hundred laughing, shouting, grinning, singing, yelling
negroes, helping to bring in the score that won the game. Then there
was that Sunday morning when several white captains decided that their
negro boys should have a bath. They took their boys down to an ocean
beach. It was a bit chilly.
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