“Hello, Jerry,” exclaimed Bob.
“Mawnin’, sah,” answered the boy, touching his hat. “Fine mawnin’, sah,” he added hastily pocketing his coin. “Ah yo’ a boada hyah, sah?” he continued.
Bob nodded his head. Beyond question, the colored boy was decked in garments inherited from older persons of various tastes. His hat was too small, and his white shirt too large. He wore neither coat nor vest, and his shirt sleeves were held up with brass sleeve holders. His trousers, a loud black and white check, were hitched far toward his shoulders with most intricate and complicated suspenders. This, however, did not prevent their frayed ends from trailing behind Jerry’s shoes. These were of patent leather, worn and cracked, with gray cloth tops and large white bone buttons.
“Yes,” said Bob, with a smile, “I’m a boarder here. I’m goin’ to be here several months. Do you live with Mrs. Franko?”
“No, sah,” replied Jerry, promptly. “No, sah. Not prezackly—not now. Ah used to be a waitah hyah, but Miss Franko an’ me we done have a fallin’ out.”
Bob already had an idea. Jerry didn’t know him. Why not utilize the black boy to pick up a little information?
“Haven’t you got a job now?” continued Bob.
“Me?” replied Jerry. “Sure, Ah has got a job. Ah wuk reg’lar ebery year—sometimes.”
“What are you doin’ now?” went on Bob.
“Well, sah,” replied Jerry, throwing out his chest, “Ah is what yo’ call a chef—dat means a cook, speakin’ common. Dey is a few rich gemmen in dis city ’at won’t eat no cookin’ ’ceptin’ mine. Dey constitute sah, what’s called de Anclote Club.”