“Dat Mrs. Morra’s pickney,” said one of the older boys, with a polite desire to effect an introduction between the gardener and the dancing person. On hearing herself thus described, Mrs. Morra’s pickney at once led the way at great speed to Mrs. Morra. Now Mrs. Morra’s was the first name on the gardener’s list of applications.
She was discovered outside the door of her hut, submitting the head of an elder daughter to that process of which the coiffure of the younger was a finished example. The conversation was punctured by wails from the victim. Wool does not adapt itself to painless combing.
“Good morning, Mrs. Morra,” said the gardener, with his confiding smile. Mrs. Morra screamed with amusement.
“I hear the earthquake knocked down your home and didn’t leave you anything to live on. You asked for some of the free bread, didn’t you? The police gave us your name.”
“P’leece?” questioned Mrs. Morra, who seemed amused by the mention of her necessity. “Whe’ dat, please?”
“The police—the big man in blue,” said the gardener, before he remembered that on the Island the police was always a little man in white.
“P’leece?” persisted Mrs. Morra.
“The policeman—the law,” said the gardener desperately.
Every nigger is familiar with the law. Going to law is a vice that on the Island takes the place of drink. The nigger’s idea of heaven is a vast courthouse, with the Almighty sitting at a desk awarding him damages and costs.
“Oh, de law—de polizman, please sah,” said Mrs. Morra.