They Don't Dance Much: A Novel by James Ross

his meals, anyway. He beckoned me over to where he was.
    ‘Gimme a beer, boy,’ he said, and spat on the floor. I got him the beer, and he grabbed it quick so as not to let any of the foam get away from him. He smacked his lips and sucked in his gums. ‘What in the devil you all mean puttin up a place like this out here in these piney woods?’ he said.
    ‘I didn’t put it up,’ I said.
    ‘Who did? That Milligan boy?’
    ‘Yeah, it’s Smut’s. His idea was to make money,’ I said.
    ‘He may do it,’ the old man said, and he pushed back his greasy old hat. He stuck his face down over the bottle of beer and sucked some of it up, making a fuss like a hog over a slop trough. ‘He may do it. But I doubt it.’
    ‘Why not?’ I asked him.
    ‘There ain’t no money in this country. This here is a farmin country. God knows there ain’t no money to farmin nowadays.’
    ‘There’s mills in Corinth,’ I said.
    ‘Cotton mills ain’t no money to this country,’ he said. ‘The mill hands don’t git to work half the time. When they do git their little pay checks the company takes it right back, for furnish, and for house rent and wood, and all. This is got to be a pore country.’
    ‘Why, the knitters in the hosiery mills make good money,’ I said.
    Old Man Joshua spat on the floor again. ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘They make right smart wages till they eyes go bad on them and they have to go back to farmin, or git on relief. They don’t never save no money. Spend it all on cars and ridin.’
    ‘Maybe they’ll spend some of it out here,’ I said. ‘And maybe we can take in some of the tourists going south.’
    ‘Oh, Yankees is got the money,’ Old Man Joshua said. ‘Gimme another beer.’ He pushed the empty bottle away from him. ‘They’s a few folks in Corinth got money too,’ he went on. ‘Henry Fisher is got plenty money. But folks like that go to the beach and to Californy, and to Charlotte, and up Nawth to spend it. They ain’t comin out here for no amusement.’
    I thought about something then. ‘Listen, Mr. Joshua,’ I said. ‘I hear some folks say Bert Ford has got money. Is there anything to that?’
    Old Man Joshua shook his head. ‘Don’t know. Some say he have; some say not. Bert won’t talk nothin less’n he’s been a-drinkin a right smart spell.’ He poured a little beer out of the bottle into the palm of his hand and lapped it up like a dog drinking water.
    ‘You want a glass?’ I asked him.
    He shook his head. ‘Naw. Onct I was out to Bert’s house to see him. He been on a drunk for a month or two. He talked mighty foxy to me that night. He says: “Joshua, if you got money don’t put it in no bank. Give it back to Old Mother Yurth. Bury it.” I don’t know what in the Dinah he was talkin bout, less’n he meant he buried what money he had.’
    ‘Maybe he’d lost money in some bank and was talking about that,’ I said.
    ‘Maybe he was.’ the old man said. ‘Gimme another beer.’
    I saw he didn’t know anything about it, so I stopped talking to him. He finished that beer and went over where the nickelodeon was. He was crazy about music. Any sort of music.
    That night there was a fair crowd out. When we counted up at one A.M . on Monday morning we had pulled in fifty dollars that day. Besides that, Smut had won seventeen dollars playing blackjack. He’d got the boys to playing with the trimmed cards. When they quit that evening, the cards weren’t the only doings that had been trimmed.
    We didn’t get rich the next week. As far as business was concerned, things were dull as a froe, but on Thursday afternoon Lola Fisher drove out again.
    It was early when she got there. I was inside when I heard a car drive up. I knew Dick was out there, so I didn’t even look up from the paper I was reading. In a little while I heard somebody laugh. It sounded like Lola. I went to the window and looked out. Smut was standing beside her car and was talking to her. He must have