her brain. The music stopped. The pain stopped. A sudden burst of applause made Dot laugh. It was as though an audience were approving her successful effort not to let an eager groan pass her lips.
She looked at the watch. There was probably lots of time before the next seizure. She raised herself again and looked across the yard to the house where the negroes laughed and danced and "took the cash and let the credit go."
The orchestra had been plentifully encouraged. They took up their instruments again. They played "That Red-Haired Gal." It hadn't mattered so much with the blues that the cornet was out of tune. But it sounded terrible now. The flat, tinny notes jangled against the hot, breathless night and irritated Dot.
And there was another pain. Fifteen minutes apart. No excuse to call for Miss Harris, but she would have liked company.
Time passed with a strange, incredible swiftness. The pains grew stronger. It became impossible to lie still. Impossible to sit up. The figures on Miss Harris' watch were white, and the face was black. The figures misbehaved. They congregated in the center of the watch and danced around in wild abandon. She couldn't time her pains nor tell how late it was. She thought she was crying, she wasn't quite certain. A cramp, Mrs. Cudahy had said. A cramp! Had Mrs. Cudahy ever really borne a child? Perhaps Sue was adopted. Pain that made you writhe, made you run your fingers through your hair, made you drip with perspiration, and finally made you ring the bell for Miss Harris.
She came, cool and faithful. "What is it, dear?"
"Oh, I'm in such awful pain," Dot gasped.
Miss Harris pulled Dot's nightgown up and made a brief examination. She captured one of Dot's wildly
