CHAPTER XIII.—My Talent Called into Active Service.
“Ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?”
“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they're sich ugly warmints.”
HAVING to deliver a letter, containing an account and a stock receipt, to one of Mr. Timmis's clients, residing at the west end of the town; in crossing through one of the fashionable squares, I observed a flat-faced negro servant in livery, standing at the door of one of the houses.
Two chimney sweepers who happened to be passing, showed their white teeth in a contemptuous grin at the African.
“Bob,” I overheard one remark, “ar'n't you glad you ain't a black-a-moor?”
“I should think so,” replied his sooty brother, “they're sich ugly warmints. Master's daughter, wots come from boarding school! says the sight of 'ems' enough to frighten one into conwulsions!”
Alas! for the prejudice of the world! How much this ignorant remark reminded me of my patron's unfounded hatred of all “forriners.” It was precisely the same sentiment, differently expressed, that actuated the thoughts and opinions of both.
I must, however, do Mr. Timmis the justice to say, that he made ample amends to Monsieur Dubois for the affront he had so thoughtlessly put upon the worthy Frenchman; and did all in his power to obtain him pupils.