“You do?  What does your wife have to say to that?” I asked, maliciously.

He stared at me an instant, then replied: 

“My wife!—­oh—­oh, Law bless yoh soul, seh, she do’ keeh.  Bro’ ’Dolphus Beam, he sees ahta heh:  you see, seh, she’s I-o-n-g way ’moved f’om Asba’y class; ’twont admit none but fus’-class ‘speience-givvahs in Asba’y, an’ my wife she wa’n’t nevvah no han’ to talk; haint got de gif’ of de tongue which Saul, suhname Paul, speaks of in de Scripcheh—­don’t possess hit, seh.”

“She must be a very nice person to live with,” I remarked.

“Well, y-e-es, seh,” replied Thomas, after reflecting awhile.  “I hain’t got nuth’n’ ‘g’in’ Ailse; she’s quite, an’ ohdaly, a good cook, an’ laundriss, an’ she’s a lady,[1] an’ all that, but sh’ ain’t not to say what you’d call a giftid ’oman.”

“Like Sister Mary Ann Jinkins, eh?”

“Egg-zac’ly, seh.  Mist’ Dunkin, you put hit kehrec’, seh.  Ailse hain’t possessed with none of the high talence, cain’t exhoht, naw sing with fehveh, naw yit lead in praieh; heh talence is mos’ly boun’ up in napkins—­as Scripcheh say—­mos’ly boun’ up in napkins; foh I do’ deny she kin do up all kines o’ table-linen, she kin indeed.  Naw, seh, I cain’t say I got nuth’n’ ‘g’in’ Ailse.”

He was, I think, the worst manager of finances that I have ever known.  He cleaned all the offices in our building, and earned, as near as I could estimate, about thirty-five dollars a month.  Three of his four children were self-supporting, and his wife was honest and industrious, taking in washing, and getting well paid for her work.  Yet, he was perpetually in debt, and his wages were always overdrawn.  Whenever I came into the office after my two-o’clock lunch, and found him seated on his wooden chair, in the corner, gazing absently out at the dingy chimneys opposite—­apparently too abstracted to observe my entrance, I knew I had only to go to my desk to find, placed in a conspicuous position thereon, a very small, dirty bit of paper, with these words laboriously inscribed upon it:  “Mr. Dunkin Sir cen you oblidge me with the sum of three dolers an a half [or whatever the sum might be] an deduc thee same from mi salry i em in grate kneed of thee same yours mos respecfull thomas wheatley.”

The form was always the same, my name in imposing capitals and the remainder in the very smallest letters which he could coax his stiff old fingers to make, and all written on the tiniest scrap of writing-paper.  I think his object was to impress me with his humiliation, impecuniosity, and general low condition, because as soon as he received the money—­which he always did, I vowing to myself each time that this advance should be the last, and as regularly breaking my vow—­he would tip-toe carefully to the mantel-piece, get down his pen and ink, borrow my sand-bottle, and proceed to indite me a letter of acknowledgment.  This written, he would present it with a sweeping bow, and then retire precipitately to his corner, chuckling, and perspiring profusely.  He usually preferred foolscap for these documents, and the capitals were numerous and imposing.  Like the others, however, they were invariably word for word the same, and were couched in the following terms: