they were sure to bolt away as suddenly as they had come. He could have, but he could not hold.
Now, as Alva told Emma Lou, this was a distinct handicap to one who wished to be a hustler, and live by one’s wits off the bounty of others. And the competition was too keen in a place like Harlem, where the adaptability to city ways sometimes took strange and devious turns, for a bungler to have much success. Alva realized this, if Braxton didn’t, and tried to tell him so, but Braxton wouldn’t listen. He felt that Alva was merely being envious—the fact that Alva had more suits than he, and that Alva always had clean shirts, liquor money and room rent, and, that Alva could continue to have these things, despite the fact that he had decided to quit work during the hot weather, meant nothing to Braxton at all. He had facial and physical perfection, a magnetic body and much sex appeal. Ergo, he was a master.
However, lean days were upon him. His mother and aunt had unexpectedly come to New York to help him celebrate the closing day of his freshman year at Columbia. His surprise at seeing them was nothing in comparison to their surprise in finding that their darling had not even started his freshman year. The aunt was stoic—“What could you expect of a child with all that wild Indian blood in him? Now, our people. . . .” She hadn’t liked Braxton’s father. His
