“Yuh might be a lawyuh, an’ all dat; but I ain’t goin’ tuh hab yuh stan’ dey an’ tell me dat Mistuh Archdale gots dem po’ w’ite-trash ways. Ob course he don’t likes de smell ob goat; but he gots er haht in he breas’ fuh de po’ cripple nigger.”
A wry smile tugged at the corner of Archdale’s mouth.
“All right, Porgy,” he said, “I got it all; but, gentleman or no gentleman, I can’t have a goat on my doorstep. I would not have one client left in a week.”
At the sound of Archdale’s voice, Porgy looked around. His entire body seemed to express amazement.
“Why, hyuh’s de Boss now!” he cried. Then he turned triumphantly to the negro, and added, “Wut I done tells yuh ’bout de real quality; ain’t yuh done see he say I kin stay?”
Archdale became desperate. “I did not say you could,” he cried, with the manner of one who puts his foot in the crack of a closing door. “You can wait there today, as I will be in court all morning; but tomorrow you must find somewhere else.”
“By tuhmorruh I goin’ hab dis goat wash till yuh can’t tell um from one of dem rosebush in de pahk!” Porgy assured him with an ingenuous smile. “Yuh is goin’ to be mighty lubbin’ of dis goat attuh a while, Boss.”
“No; goats don’t wash, Porgy. Away you go after today.” But the power of absolute conviction was not in Archdale’s voice. His foot was still in the crack; but he knew that the door was closing.
“All right, Frasier; I’ll see you now about your divorce business,” he said to the other negro, and showed him into the office.
Presently through an open window behind Porgy came the sound of Archdale’s voice: