I wish more of it could be expended in servants’ wages.
Six times I rang the bell; three several times came three different Irish lads; entered, received my demand for a fire, and retired. I was writing, shiveringly, a full hour before the fire-man came. Now he has entered, bearing on his head a hod of coal and kindling wood, without knocking. An aged negro, more familiar and more indifferent to forms of subserviency than the Irish lads, very much bent, seemingly with infirmity; an expression of impotent anger in his face, and a look of weakness, like a drunkard’s. He does not look at me, but mutters unintelligibly.
“What’s that you say?”
“Tink I can make a hundred fires at once?”
“I don’t want to sit an hour waiting for a fire, after I have ordered one, and you must not let me again.”
“Nebber let de old nigger have no ress—hundred gemmen tink I kin mak dair fires all de same minit; all get mad at an ole nigger; I ain’t a goin to stan it—nebber get no ress—up all night—haint got nautin to eat nor drink dis blessed mornin—hundred gemmen—”
“That’s not my business; Mr. Dexter should have more servants.”
“So he ort ter, master, dat he had; one ole man ain’t enough for all dis house, is it, master? hundred gemmen—”
“Stop—here’s a quarter for you: now I want you to look out that I have a good fire, and keep the hearth clean in my room as long as I stay here. And when I send for you I want you to come immediately. Do you understand?”
“I’le try, master—you jus look roun and fine me when you want yer fire; I’ll be roun somewhere. You got a newspaper, sir, I ken take for a minit? I won’t hurt it.”