"Can you imagine? It makes me think. It comes to me the guy is really off his trolley. To keep him calm I says, 'Well—'
"He goes out. 'I'm shed o' him,' I says to myself. Not a bit. About three minutes and here he comes trottin' back, sure enough, bringin' a woman with him. Now Mister—What's-y'r-name—prepare to laugh. That there woman—listen—make up your face—she's a nigger!
"He says she ain't a nigger.
"'Mexican?' says I.
"'No,' says he.
"I give her another look, but I can't make much out of her, except she's some kind of a nigger, anyhow. She's sittin' on the bench far away from the light, and she's dressed in a second-hand horse blanket, a feed sack, and a bran' new pair of ar'tics. And she don't say a word.
"'Well,' says I, 'if she ain't some kind of nigger, I'll eat my—'
"But there he is, all of a sudden, squarin' off in front o' me, his mug stuck up and his eyes like a couple o' headlights. Imagine! The guy ain't got enough meat on his bones for a rest'rant chicken. Honest to God, he looked like he'd been through a mile o' sausage mill. But crazy as a bedbug. And there's somethin' about a crazy man—
"'Hold y'r gab!' says he. To me! That gets my goat.
"'Just for that,' says I, 'you can get out o' this station. And don't forget to take your woman along with you. Get out!'