The bar-room had its orchestra of three banjos, making it a hall of
music every night in the year. And herein Africa added itself to the
civilization of the New World. Three coal-black slaves of the host's sat
on a bench sacred to them, and softly twanged their instruments,
breaking out at intervals into the wild chants of their people;
improvising, and stimulating each other by musical hints and
exclamations. It was evident that they esteemed their office; and the
male public of Kaskaskia showed them consideration. While the volume of
talk was never lessened during their glees, the talkers all listened
with at least one ear. There was no loud brawling, and the laughter
raised by argument rarely drowned the banjos. Sometimes a Frenchman was
inspired to cut a pigeon wing; and Father Baby had tripped it over every
inch of this oak floor, when the frenzy for dancing seized him and the
tunes were particularly irresistible. The bar-room gave him his only
taste of Kaskaskia society, and he took it with zest.
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