“Oh, Annette, what a girl you are; why did you notice her?  What did she say?”

“She said if there was, it must have got there since the teacher put her on that seat, and it must have come from me.”

“Well, Mary Joseph knows how to scratch as well as you do.”

“Yes, she is a real scratch cat.”

“And what are you, my dear; a pattern saint?”

“No,” said Annette, as the ruefulness of her face relaxed into a smile, “but that isn’t all; when I went to eat my lunch, she said she wasn’t used to eating with niggers.  Then I asked her if her mother didn’t eat with the pigs in the old country, and she said that she would rather eat with them than to eat with me, and then she called me a nigger and I called her a poor white mick.”

“Oh, Annette, I am so sorry; I am afraid that trouble may come out of this fuss, and then it is so wrong and unlady-like for you to be quarrelling that way.  Do you know how old you are?”

“I am almost fourteen years old.”

“Where was the teacher all this time?  Did she know anything about it?”

“No; she was out of the room part of the time, but I don’t think she likes colored people, because last week when Joe Smith was cutting up in school, she made him get up and sit alongside of me to punish him.”

“She should not have done so, but I don’t suppose she thought for one moment how it looked.”

“I don’t know, but when I told grandma about it, Mrs. Larkins was in the room, and she said if she had done a child of hers so, she would have gone there and sauced her head off; but grandma said that she would not notice it; that the easiest way is the best.”

“I think that your grandmother was right; but what did Joe say?”

He said that the teacher didn’t spite him; that he would as lieve sit by me as any girl in school, and that he liked girls.”

“A little scamp.”

“He says he likes girls because they are so jolly.”

“But tell me all about Mary Joseph.”

“Well, a mean old thing, she went and told her horrid old father, and just as I was coming along he took hold of my arm and said he had heard that I had called his daughter, Miss Mary Joseph, a poor white mick and that if I did it again he would give me a good thrashing, and that for two pins he would do it then.”

“What next?”

“I guess I felt like Mrs. Larkins does when she says her Guinea gets up.  My Guinea was up but I was afraid to show it.  Oh, but I do hate these Irish.  I don’t like them for anything.  Grandmother says that an Irishman is only a negro turned wrong side out, and I told her so yesterday morning when she was fussing with me.”

“Say, rather, when we were fussing together; I don’t think the fault was all on her side.”

“But, Mrs. Lasette, she had no business calling me a nigger.”

“Of course not; but would you have liked it [any] better if she had called you a negro?”