"They're beginning to impose on you. It's usually that way with charities," said Cortlandt.
With unfeminine neglect of the chance for petty discussion, his wife left the room without replying, and descended to the hotel lobby. Here she was directed toward a very ragged, very woe-begone young black on the rear porch, who, at sight of her, began to fumble his hat and run his words together so excitedly that she was forced to calm him.
"Now, now! I can't understand a word. Who are you?"
"H'Allan, mistress."
"You say some one is ill?"
"Oh yes, he is very h'ill h'indeed, mistress—h'all covered with blood and his poor 'ands h'all cut."
"Who—?"
"And his 'ead—oh, Lard! His 'ead is cut, too, and he suffers a fever."
"WHO IS IT?"
"Mr. h'Auntony—"