Madge. Wait a moment, boy. You see we have gained a "step," too.
Madge (embracing Stranger). I was sure I should like you.
Bess. And I—
Stranger. Never, never, never can.
Bess (taking her hand affectionately). I thought so once, but now I know that circumstances alter cases.
[JIM DANDY.]
When I was last in the South, the gentleman at whose house I was visiting asked a trustworthy old colored man to get him a green boy from the country to be trained as a house servant. In a day or so the old man drove up to the door and put out of his wagon a sturdy-looking lad of fifteen or so, black as the ace of spades, and clad in raiment seemingly made of selections from a rag-bag. With a small bundle in his hand he approached the gallery—that is what a porch in some parts of the South is called—where I was sitting with my host, Mr. Prettyman. The boy took off his hat and made not a bow exactly but an inclination of his head, grinning from ear to ear, and displaying as white and useful a set of teeth as is often seen.
"What is your name?" Mr. Prettyman asked.