“Huh!” This from him. “Have you employed Hon. Doc Cook for janitor?”
“Why so?” This from Hon. Mrs.
“Because he makes North Poles wherever he goes,” snig Hon. Mr. I could not assimilate this compliment which might be otherwise.
I brought in dinner-food on tray and set him to table. When Hon. Mr. took chair he looked to me with serious eyesight.
“That are nice-looking niggero boy you employ,” he snuggest to Hon. Mrs.
“He are not niggero,” she devolve. “He got that complexion from being attentive to furnace.”
“Oh,” he snagger. “If he would put more coal in Hon. Furnace and less on that face, perhapsly I should feel less iced.”
I could not chide that denaturized man, yet I thought so.
After dinner-eat he approach to kitchen and say: “Togo,” he say with doggish voice, “furnaces are made for heats. Otherwisely we would use ice-boxes, which is just as handsome. Any cook who cannot feed my furnace should be banished for cruelty.”
“I understand this knowledge,” I report chivalrously.