“Up-State,” he begun, “I’m sorry fer you, all right, but––”
Up-State looked at him. “Sewell,” he whispers, “I don’t want no man’s pity.”
“Listen to me,” says the boss. “Macie’s my little gal–the only child I got left now, and I warn you not to go talkin’ actress to her.”
“Don’t holler ’fore you git hit,” whispers Up-State, smilin’.
The boss got worse mad then. “Look a-here,” he says, “don’t give me none of that. You know you lie––”
Up-State shook his haid. “I’m not a man any more, Sewell,” he whispers. “I’m just what’s left of one. I didn’t used to let nobody hand out things that flat to me.”
I stuck in my lip. (One more time couldn’t hurt.) “Now, Sewell,” I says, “put on the brake.”
He got a holt on hisself then. “This ain’t no josh to me, Cupid,” he says. (He was tremblin’, pore ole cuss!) “What you think I heerd this mornin’? Mace ain’t makin’ enough money passin’ slumgullion to them passenger cattle all day, so she’s a-goin’ over to Silverstein’s ev’ry night after this to fix up his books. I wisht now I’d never sent her t’ business college.”
Just then–
| “Sweet is the vale where the Mohawk gently glides On its fair, windin’ way to the sea–” |