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Updated: June 16, 2025
But Jim was long and thin and bent at the waist from stooping over pool-tables, and he was what might have been known in the indiscriminating North as a corner loafer. "Jelly-bean" is the name throughout the undissolved Confederacy for one who spends his life conjugating the verb to idle in the first person singular I am idling, I have idled, I will idle.
Jim Powell, who is a well-known Jelly-bean of this city, is an exception to the great rule 'lucky in dice unlucky in love. He's lucky in dice, and as matter of fact I I love him.
Suddenly sleepy and listless, Nancy flung the dice down before him. "All right old boy! As Lady Diana Manners says, 'Shoot 'em, Jelly-bean' My luck's gone." "Mr. Taylor," said Jim, carelessly, "we'll shoot for one of those there checks against the cash." Half an hour later Nancy swayed forward and clapped him on the back. "Stole my luck, you did." She was nodding her head sagely.
The particular Jelly-bean patch which produced the protagonist of this history lies somewhere between the two a little city of forty thousand that has dozed sleepily for forty thousand years in southern Georgia occasionally stirring in its slumbers and muttering something about a war that took place sometime, somewhere, and that everyone else has forgotten long ago. Jim was a Jelly-bean.
They agreed after some argument that Jim, unmolested by females, was to view the spectacle from a secluded settee in the corner where Clark would join him whenever he wasn't dancing. So ten o'clock found the Jelly-bean with his legs crossed and his arms conservatively folded, trying to look casually at home and politely uninterested in the dancers.
The Jelly-bean strolling up Jackson Street humming a lazy song, known at every shop and street stand, cropful of easy greeting and local wit, sad sometimes for only the sake of sadness and the flight of time that Jelly-bean was suddenly vanished. The very name was a reproach, a triviality.
Then he sauntered along toward Soda Sam's, where he found the usual three or four cars of a summer evening parked in front and the little darkies running back and forth with sundaes and lemonades. "Hello, Jim." It was a voice at his elbow Joe Ewing sitting in an automobile with Marylyn Wade. Nancy Lamar and a strange man were in the back seat. The Jelly-bean tipped his hat quickly.
I think " and her slight unsteadiness seemed part of an enchanted dream "I think you deserve one of my sweetest kisses for that, Jelly-bean." For an instant her arms were around his neck her lips were pressed to his. "I'm a wild part of the world, Jelly-bean, but you did me a good turn." Then she was gone, down the porch, over the cricket-loud lawn.
Over east along the golf course a faint rug of gray spread itself across the feet of the night. The party in the car began to chant a chorus as the engine warmed up. "Good-night everybody," called Clark. "Good-night, Clark." "Good-night." There was a pause, and then a soft, happy voice added, "Good-night, Jelly-bean." The car drove off to a burst of singing.
Some ray had passed between the pair, a shaft of beauty from that sun that had warmed him a moment since. The Jelly-bean felt suddenly like a weed in a shadow. A minute later Clark approached him, bright-eyed and glowing. "Hi, old man" he cried with some lack of originality. "How you making out?" Jim replied that he was making out as well as could be expected.
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