Altogether, it is not to be wondered that such sturdy sons of Ham as Ambrose disliked the snaky Mr. Raffin.  Disliked him the more when his various musical and cultural accomplishments made him a general favourite with the ladies.  And then, when he absolutely cut Mr. Travis from the affections of Miss Tate, the wrath of the blacker and more wholesome San Juan citizens knew no bounds.

As for Ambrose—­he sulked.  Even his friends, the fur-lined tenants of Swalecliffe Arms, noticed that something worried the swart guardian of their gate.  In the evenings Ambrose gave his entire time to frenzied rolling of the bones and was surprised to see that here, at least, luck had not deserted him.

On the few occasions when he forsook the green baize for an evening’s dancing at the St. Benedict Young People’s Guild, the sight of the coveted Miss Aphrodite whirling in the arms of the hated Raffin almost overcame him.

Finally the lovesick Mr. Travis decided to call upon the lady of his heart and demand an explanation.  After some rehearsal of what he wanted to say, Ambrose betook himself to the tenement in which the Tate family dwelt.  At sight of her cast-off swain, Miss Aphrodite showed the whites of her eyes and narrowed her lips to a thin straight line—­perhaps an inch and a half thin.  Evidently she was displeased.

Aphrodite opened the interview by inquiring why she was being pestered and intermediated by a low-down black nigger that didn’t have no mo’ brains than he had manners.  Her feelings was likely to git the better of her at any moment; in which event Mr. Travis had better watch out, that was all—­jest watch out.

The astounded Mr. Travis did his best to pacify this Amazon; to explain that he had merely come to inquire the reason for her displeasure; to learn in what respect Mr. Raffin had proved himself so sweetly desirable.

The answer was brief and crushing.  It seemed that where Mr. Travis was a big, bulky opener of doors, Mr. Raffin was a sleek and cultured Chesterfield—­a musician—­an artist.  Where Mr. Travis could not dance without stepping on everybody in the room, Mr. Raffin was a veritable Mordkin.  Where Mr. Travis hung out with a bunch of no-good crap-shooting black buck niggers, Mr. Raffin’s orchestral duties brought him into the most cultured s’ciety.  In short, the yellow man from Haiti was a gentleman; the black man from Texas was a boor.

This unexpected tirade made the unhappy Ambrose a trifle weak in the knees.  Then pride came to the rescue, and he drew himself to his full and towering six feet five.  He held out his mammoth hands before Miss Aphrodite and warned her that with them, at the first provocation, he would jest take and bust Mr. Raffin in two.  This done, he would throw the shuddering fragments into the street, and with his feet—­Exhibit B—­would kick them the entire length and breadth of the neighbourhood.

This threat only aroused new fires of scorn and vituperation, and Miss Tate informed her guest that, should he ever attempt the punitive measures described, Mr. Raffin would cut him up into little pieces.  It seemed that Mr. Raffin carried a knife, and that he knew how to use it.