§ 229 George, the Forbearing
When Millie came on a Saturday night to bring the week’s washing her comely, pleasant brown face was disfigured by a swollen black contusion which began at her left eye and extended downward until it covered her cheek.
“Oh, Millie,” said her distressed employer, “what a dreadful bruise! How did it ever happen?”
“A nigger man hit me,” explained Millie simply.
“Oh, that’s terrible!” exclaimed the white lady. “I hope—I hope it wasn’t your husband that struck you?”
“No’m, Mizz Harrison, ’twuzn’t him. Gawge, he don’t never hit me. He treats me mo’ lak a friend than a husband.”
§ 230 An Old One and Its Younger Half-Brother
Everybody does know—or should know—the ancient wheeze of the theatre manager who posted a sign in his house: “Don’t Smoke—Remember the Iroquois Fire,” and of the wag who wrote under this the added warning: “Don’t Spit—Remember the Johnstown Flood.” A half-brother to this yarn, of somewhat newer vintage, however, comes from a regular army post.
A newly enlisted private, still unskilled in military etiquette, flung a lighted cigarette end on the parade ground. The first sergeant of his company saw the crime committed. He made the offender pick up the smouldering butt and then stand at attention while being scolded at length.
When mess call sounded, the new hand was tardy for his meal.