“Grasshoppers? What are they?” said one in front, in a tone disgustingly quiet. In this school, not only the principal, but the students as well, were addicted to using twisted-round expressions.
“Don’t know grasshoppers! You shall see!” To my chagrin, there was none; I had swept them all out. I called the janitor again and told him to fetch those grasshoppers he had taken away. The janitor said he had thrown them into the garbage box, but that he would pick them out again. “Yes, hurry up,” I said, and he sped away. After a while he brought back about ten grasshoppers on a white paper, remarking:
“I’m sorry, Sir. It’s dark outside and I can’t find out more. I’ll find some tomorrow.” All fools here, down to the janitor. I showed one grasshopper to the students.
“This is a grasshopper. What’s the matter for as big idiots as you not to know a grasshopper.” Then the one with a round face sitting on the left saucily shot back:
“A-ah say, that’s a locust, a-ah——.”
“Shut up. They’re the same thing. In the first place, what do you mean by answering your teacher ‘A-ah say’? Ah-Say or Ah-Sing is a Chink’s name!”
For this counter-shot, he answered:
“A-ah say and Ah-Sing is different,—A-ah say.” They never got rid of “A-ah say.”
“Grasshoppers or locusts, why did you put them into my bed? When I asked you to?”
“Nobody put them in.”