Jelly-bean

The Jelly-bean walked out on the porch to a deserted corner, dark between the moon on the lawn and the single lighted door of the ballroom.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

I want to tell the world that Mr. 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.’

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

Jelly-bean turned into a poolhall on Jackson Street where he was sure to find a congenial crowd who would make all the old jokes — the ones he knew.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

The Jelly-bean felt suddenly like a weed in a shadow.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

And on his part the Jelly-bean had used for her a dingy subterfuge learned from the garage.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

The Jelly-bean turned and looked dully back over his shoulder.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

Now if you call a Memphis man a Jelly-bean he will quite possibly pull a long sinewy rope from his hip pocket and hang you to a convenient telegraph-pole.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

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.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

Jelly-bean he will probably grin and ask you who is taking your girl to the Mardi Gras ball.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003

The East, gray when Jelly-bean entered the garage, became a rich and vivid blue as he turned on his solitary electric light.

Tales of the Jazz Age 2003