Joe: Oh, doan you let nobody tell her, Misteh Porteh!
Porter: Never until I tell her with my own lips.
Joe: Dat’s right, dat’s right! She’ll believe what her pappy tells her. Ah bet it ain’t so bad as some folks made it look like.
Porter: That is a question I never discuss with anyone in this place.
Joe: Ah understan you, boss. Ah reckon you aint showed dis hyar picture to many. But when a genleman from de South talk wid a niggeh, it’s like he was a chile, talkin to his black mammy. Dat little Miss Margaret got a ole mammy what take care of her?
Porter: Yes, Joe. (he puts away photograph) Every night I sit here and write, and all the time I’m thinking of one thing, to get enough money to send Margaret a present at Christmas. I didn’t have anything for her birthday, and I’m sure not going to fail again! Miss Azalea Adair will help me out.
Joe: She’d a liked dat first rate, Misteh Porteh.
Porter: What did she look like?
Joe: She had white hair, an her dresses was old, but de laundrin was new; a little lady, hardly anything to her; gentle an quaht—you know what dem Southern ladies is.
Porter: And your old daddy, tell me about him.