“Who’ yer talkin to, sah? You kin fling yer sass at white folks, but, honey, yuse er projeckin’ wid death now!”
“I ain’t er nigger—I’se er gemman, I is,” was the sullen answer.
“How ole is you?” asked Aleck in milder tones.
“Me mudder say sixteen—but de Buro man say I’se twenty-one yistiddy, de day ‘fo’ ’lection.”
“Is you voted to-day?”
“Yessah; vote in all de boxes ‘cept’n dis one. Look at dat ticket. Is dat de straight ticket?”
Aleck, who couldn’t read the twelve-inch letters of his favourite bar-room sign, took the rat label and examined it critically.
“What ail it?” he asked at length.
The boy pointed at the picture of the rat.
“What dat rat doin’, lyin’ dar on his back, wid his heels cocked up in de air—’pear ter me lak a rat otter be standin’ on his feet!”