III
Jasper was cleaning up the locker room—his regular Monday-morning job. As he worked he crooned the words of an old negro melody:
"Ole bline hawss, come outen the wilderness,
Outen the wilderness, outen the wilderness;
Ole bline hawss——"
The side door opened and Jasper dropped his mop.
"Who's that?" he asked. "This early in the mawnin'?" But when he recognised the caller he did not show the faintest symptoms of surprise. Jasper was more than a perfect servant; he was also a diplomat. "Good mawnin', Misteh Coyne."
The caller seemed embarrassed. He attempted to assume a cheerful expression, but succeeded in producing a silly grin.
"Jasper," said he, "I was a little bit sore yesterday——"
"Yes, suh; an' nobody could blame you," said the negro, coming gallantly to the rescue.
"And you know how it is with a man when he's sore."
"Yes, suh. Man don' always mean whut he say—that is, he mean it all right at the time. Yes, suh. At—the—time. 'N'en ag'in, he might change."