The other darkey, a languid person with an evident inclination to high fashion, perceived in the demand an effort at imposition. With his spruce white jacket and apron, he lounged in the doorway leaning against its frame in a most negative attitude. His voice in objection took on the plaint of a high falsetto. “The Cap’n nuver mentioned nare word to me ’bout cuttin’ wood. I’ll sure cook, if I have got a fire to cook with.”
“You black rascal, do you expect me to build your fire?” sputtered Floyd-Rosney.
“The Cap’n nuver treated me right,” the provisional cook evaded the direct appeal. “He nuver tole me that I was gwine to be axed to cut wood.”
“How were you going to cook without a fire?” demanded Ducie.
“I ’spected you gemmen had a fire somewhere.”
“In my coat-pocket?” asked Floyd-Rosney.
The waiter would not essay the retort direct. He, too, was perfectly polite. “I ain’t gwine to cut wood,” he murmured plaintively.
“I wish we had kept one of those roustabouts to cut wood instead of letting them all go with the yawl back to the Cherokee Rose,” said Floyd-Rosney, in great annoyance. “They are worth a hundred of these saloon darkies.”
“Don’t name me ’mongst dat triflin’ gang, Mr. Floyd-Rosney,” the Major’s retainer said, in dignified remonstrance. “But I jes’ come along to wait on de Major, an’ cuttin’ wood is a business I ain’t in no wise used to. Naw, sir.”
“I never was expectin’ to cut wood,” plained the high falsetto of the saloon darkey.