That laugh settled the question; the aggravating irony of Hanson’s expression sealed it.
Pompous drew himself up and swelled himself out with solemn dignity as he inquired, in a tone of gloomy reproach:
“An’ do yo’ s’pose, sah, as I’m gwine to be hung fo’ de likes ob a ’toxified sinner like yo’ is?”
Hanson laughed.
“No, sah, I hol’s de doag offen yo’, sah; I spares yo’ libe, sah; I gibs yo’ time fo’ ’pentance, sah; an’ I hopes yo’ll make good use ob de time I gibs yo’, sah; it’s de trufe, fo’ a sollum fac’; an’ so I takes my doag, an’ leabes yo’, sah—leabes yo’ to yo’ own ’wices, sah.” And Pompous strutted solemnly away.
“Hold on!” Hanson called after him.
Pompous turned around.
“Who were those children I saw with your mistress?”
“De yittle brack gal were Hera Hutter’s chile.”
“Never mind her. The little white one?”