To Ike, it was a duty from which much pleasure could be derived to take part in any controversy. Likewise, one acquires merit, when one is a chauffeur, by strongly maintaining the contention of one’s mistress–she may reciprocate in a difficult hour. Ike turned an unfriendly countenance upon the woman, and asked for information, “How ah gwine see ’roun’ er corner? Does you ’spect dat ma eyes is twisted?”
“Go long, man. Mine you’ own business.”
Not thus summarily was Ike to be dismissed. “Dese yere chillun ain’ no call to be in de street. Howcum ’em der? Ain’ it yo’all’s business to keep ’em outen de way?” A uniformity in costume struck him. “Ain’ dey orphant chillun runnin’ loose?”
“Orphans! The poor things!” Virginia cried.
“Wot ef dey is orphants?” the woman protested with great belligerence.
“Den,” Ike behaved as if he, a public spirited citizen, had discovered the warden of a penitentiary seeking pleasure beyond the walls with notorious criminals, “howcum dey heah? Wharfo?”
The suspicion and force in the chauffeur’s manner brought fresh tears to orphan eyes.
Encouraged by these evidences of public attention, Ike continued his investigation. “Ah axes you woman, why ain’ dey in de ’sylum whar dey ’long?”
The chauffeur’s words had not soothed the guardian of the children. She showed unmistakable signs of increasing wrath. Glaring fixedly at him, she blazed, “Mine you’ own business, you black po’cupine.”
Although the application of the epithet was obscure, its effect was all that could be desired. Ike suffered a species of fit. His mouth opened and closed without sound. His wildly rolling eyes exposed wide areas of white and then glued themselves in invenomed hatred upon the woman. Muscles contracted and worked in his neck. Even as a panther, he appeared about to spring upon his foe.