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
