“What comes next?” he asks.
She consults the program.
“It says ’ere, ‘Act four, sime as Act one.’ ”
“Ow!” he exclaims, “let’s ’op it. I couldn’t sit through all that hawful mess again.”
§ 272 There Was No Hurry about It
A brawny negro prize-fighter made application at an athletic club which was putting on a series of bouts, for an opportunity to meet some suitable opponent. He announced that he was a dark cloud, a whirlwind, a tempest, a tornado, a hurricane and a sirocco.
His language impressed the match-maker and for the preliminary go he was entered against a dependable colored scrapper. The stranger made a deplorable showing. For two rounds his opponent hammered him all over the ring. Early in the third round the beaten darky decided he had enough. He took an easy poke on the jaw and flattened out on the canvas to be counted out.
The referee was halfway through with his tally when disgust moved him to interpolate a speech:
“Say, nigger,” he growled out of the corner of his mouth, “you ain’t hurt. Get up from there! Ain’t you goin’ to fight any more?”
Without stirring from his comfortable recumbent position the whirlwind made answer: