“No, nor I don’t know it now; you look like the man who sold the woman next door a ten cent chromo for two dollars.”
“But here is my card.”
“I don’t care for cards, I tell you! If you leave that gate open, I will have to fling a flower-pot at you!”
“I will call again,” he said, as he went through the gate.
“It won’t do any good!” she shouted after him; “we don’t want no prepared food for infants—no piano music—no stuffed birds! I know the policeman on this beat, and if you come around here again, he’ll soon find out whether you are a confidence man or vagrant!”
And she took unusual care to lock the door.
WHAT SAMBO SAYS.
