“Sho? I know better. Where’s your carving-knife?”
“I haven’t got any; I never had any. That negro has been telling you lies. Just go to the door again, and insist on seeing me.”
“I wouldn’t dast to. You’d stab me,” said the man, fearfully.
“Listen to me!” said Dodger, getting out of patience. “I’m not crazy. I’m a newsboy and baggage-smasher. An old man got me to bring his valise here, and then locked me up. Won’t you go around to the station-house and send a policeman here?”
“I’ll see about it,” said the young man, who did not believe a word that Dodger had said to him.
“He won’t do it!” said Dodger to himself, in a tone of discouragement. “That miserable nigger has made him believe I am a lunatic. I’ll have him up, anyway.”
Forthwith he began to pound and kick so forcibly, that Julius came upstairs on a run, half inclined to believe that Dodger had really become insane.
“What do you want, boy?” he inquired from outside the door.
“I want you to unbolt the door and let me out.”
“I couldn’t do it, nohow,” said Julius. “It would be as much as my place is worth.”