“Get out of the way so that I can put this fire out. You are kicking it all over the place,” the bookkeeper responded.
“I have as much right here as you–you big lump of grease,” proclaimed Mr. Jones as he inspected with indignation the dark colored belt with which he had been invested.
Kelly cast a menacing look at the stenographer. “If you don’t shut up, I am going to stick this nozzle down your throat,” he threatened.
Mr. Jones watched the fizzling stream as if estimating its physiological effect under the conditions named, and remained silent.
Loud laughter sounded in the kitchen. Ike, cooled by his bath, had presented himself for comforting.
Serena thus welcomed him. “Dey souse you in saltpeter an’ you done smoke youse’f so you mus’ be cu’ed lak er ham. Sit by de stove. Ah gwine give you er cup o’ coffee,” she chuckled, “ef yo’all smells ham er feels youse’f er beginnin’ to fry, git out o’ yere afo you greases de flo.”
So Ike rested in comfort, sandwiches and coffee at his side, and smiled pleasantly upon the maids. Truly, after affliction, he had entered into the blessings of the promised land.
The fire was out. Kelly moved to return the extinguisher to its place. With a thud, a white bundle dropped from the third floor upon his head. It appeared soft but upon its touch Kelly sank to the ground, blinking vacantly.
Forgetful of their recent altercation, Mr. Jones rushed to his fellow worker’s assistance. “What’s the matter?” he demanded.
Kelly rubbed his head. “Somebody hit me with a rock,” he answered, observing Mr. Jones meanwhile with suspicion.