“So I is, so I is,” replied that lady in a conciliatory tone. “Mah father planted rice foah Colonel Heywood down in South Caroliny till he died.”
“But your money, your steady income——”
“Eb’ry Sataday night Ah draws mah little ole five dollars foah cookin’ in a res-ta-rant.”
Miss Livingston’s mood suddenly changed. From a pleading, loving maiden she became an aggressive termagant; from the defensive she assumed the offensive, gripping her pearl-handled parasol in a suggestive manner.
“Say, yo’ Wil’ Man of Borneo, dressed up in them outlannish clothes, what you mean tellin’ me yo’ was an American?”
Laney made a feeble effort to explain that he was of the race of true Americans, but he might as well have tried to be heard above the roaring of a storm in the Belly River cañon.
“Black, is I?” continued the dusky whirlwind, her voice rising to a shriek. “Maybe you think yo’ look like a snow-bank! What kin’ of a rag-time freak is yo,’ anyhow? If you think yo’ can ’gage mah ’ffections den ’spise me ’cause Ah ain’t no blonde, you’se mistaken in dis chile! Ah don’ stand for no triflin’ from no man. If yo’ scorn me, yo’ ‘What is it’ from de sideshow, Ah’ll have yo’ tuck up foah britch of promise!”
John Laney waited to hear no more. He grabbed his shining valise from the platform and ran down the nearest alley.
The Iowa Granger said editorially in its next issue:
We had a narrow escape from death last Thursday evening. We were mistaken by an intoxicated redskin for the editor of a matrimonial publication known as Wedding Chimes. Had we not pasted the infuriated savage one with the mucilage pot, and defended ourself with the scissors which, fortunately, we had in our hand at the time, undoubtedly the paper of September 12th would have been the last issue of the Iowa Granger. Our compositor came to our rescue in the nick of time.