dope” on Harlem, had told her of the “rent parties,” of the “numbers,” of “hot” men, of “sweetbacks,” and other local phenomena.
Emma Lou was now passing a barber shop near 140th Street. A group of men were standing there beneath a huge white and black sign announcing, “Bobbing’s, fifty cents; haircuts, twenty-five cents.” They were whistling at three school girls, about fourteen or fifteen years of age, who were passing, doing much switching and giggling. Emma Lou curled her lips. Harlem streets presented many such scenes. She looked at the men significantly, forgetting for the moment that it was none of her business what they or the girls did. But they didn’t notice her. They were too busy having fun with those fresh little chippies.
Emma Lou experienced a feeling of resentment, then, realizing how ridiculous it all was, smiled it away and began to think of John once more. She wondered why she had submitted herself to him. Was it cold-blooded payment for his kind chaperoning? Something like that. John wasn’t her type. He was too pudgy and dark, too obviously an excotton-picker from Georgia. He was unlettered and she couldn’t stand for that, for she liked intelligent-looking, slender, light-brown-skinned men, like, well. . . like the one who was just passing. She admired
