“Ya—as. Dat’s wot youse allus say, Mars’ Belding. Den dere was de watah man come ter bodder we-uns. Sech a combobberation I never do see. I tol’ him we nebber drink no tap watah, but has it bro’t in bottles, same as nice fo’ks does——”
“The water man?” repeated Mrs. Belding, curiously. “I can’t imagine who that could be.”
“Ya—as, ma’am!” exclaimed Mammy Jinny, who certainly loved the sound of long words, and hard words. “He come yere enquiratin’ erbout de tuberculosis in de watah.”
“Crickey jacks!” gasped Chet, choking. “What’s that?”
“My son!” begged his mother. “Please do not use such awful expressions. You are worse than Jinny.”
“Ain’t nothin’ de matter wid wot I sez!” declared the old black woman. “Dat’s wot he wanted ter know erbout—de tuberculosis in de watah.”
Mr. Belding recovered his breath. “Was by chance the man asking about the consumption of water, Jinny?” he asked.
“Dat’s it,” said the black woman. “Same t‘ing, ain’t it? Miss Laura say so. ’Consumption’ an’ ‘tuberculosis’ jes de same—heh?”
“That’s one on you, Laura!” shouted Chet, as Mammy Jinny indignantly waddled out. “Shouldn’t teach Mammy words of more than one ‘syllabub.’ You’ve been warned before.
“By the way,” he added, for they had told their parents about the adventure of the afternoon, “that Pocock is in the ward with the man Hester Grimes saved from the forest fire—right in the next bed to Billson. Pocock had both legs broken, the doctors told me—one above the knee and the other below. He’s going to have a bad time of it.”