Mr. Quince pensively spat a stream of tobacco juice across the bier of the dying one. “Maybe that doctor mought give yer some dope,” he suggested, with great deliberation.
Ike’s answer was a sepulchral groan.
Dr. Jackson, with the utmost possible composure was receiving from a group of mothers that feminine adulation usually accorded the members of his profession.
Mr. Quince slowly approached them. “That black boy is er dying over there,” he hailed, as an officer ex-changing casual greetings from his bridge with a passing ship.
The doctor leaped to his feet with a startled look. So did the mothers as well as every one else who was sitting down. They moved in a body to the side of the expiring chauffeur. About his couch they grouped, as it is painted that courts gather by the bedside of expiring monarchs to receive the royal farewell.
Before the assembled multitude, Ike moaned and groaned in anguish of mind and body.
Dr. Jackson examined him. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“Ah done drink poison,” Ike whined. “De col’ chills is er runnin’ down ma back an’ ma laigs. Ah’s gwine ter die.”
Serena drew near. Her extensive acquaintance with the young man made her skeptical in all things concerning him. She examined his surroundings with interest and cried, “Ef dat fool ain’ got no bettah sense an’ to lay hisse’f out on ma ice why ain’ he got col’ chills?”
Lifting a sack, Dr. Jackson exposed the smooth surface of a block of ice.