“No, indeed, you needn’t ’pologize to me! needn’t ’pologize to me.  I b’lieve in people sayin’ jes’ what dey mean, I does.

“Would I stay, ef you ’crease my wages?  Well—­I reckon I could, but I—­but I do’ want no foolishness.”

(Sola.) “Huh!  Did she think she was gwine to come down hyeah an’ skeer me, huh, uh?  Whaih’s dat fryin’ pan?”

The man of the house hears the rustle of his wife’s skirts as she beats a retreat and he goes upstairs and into the library whistling, “See, the Conquering Hero Comes.”

THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES

His name was Patsy Barnes, and he was a denizen of Little Africa.  In fact, he lived on Douglass Street.  By all the laws governing the relations between people and their names, he should have been Irish—­but he was not.  He was colored, and very much so.  That was the reason he lived on Douglass Street.  The negro has very strong within him the instinct of colonization and it was in accordance with this that Patsy’s mother had found her way to Little Africa when she had come North from Kentucky.

Patsy was incorrigible.  Even into the confines of Little Africa had penetrated the truant officer and the terrible penalty of the compulsory education law.  Time and time again had poor Eliza Barnes been brought up on account of the shortcomings of that son of hers.  She was a hard-working, honest woman, and day by day bent over her tub, scrubbing away to keep Patsy in shoes and jackets, that would wear out so much faster than they could be bought.  But she never murmured, for she loved the boy with a deep affection, though his misdeeds were a sore thorn in her side.

She wanted him to go to school.  She wanted him to learn.  She had the notion that he might become something better, something higher than she had been.  But for him school had no charms; his school was the cool stalls in the big livery stable near at hand; the arena of his pursuits its sawdust floor; the height of his ambition, to be a horseman.  Either here or in the racing stables at the Fair-grounds he spent his truant hours.  It was a school that taught much, and Patsy was as apt a pupil as he was a constant attendant.  He learned strange things about horses, and fine, sonorous oaths that sounded eerie on his young lips, for he had only turned into his fourteenth year.

A man goes where he is appreciated; then could this slim black boy be blamed for doing the same thing?  He was a great favorite with the horsemen, and picked up many a dime or nickel for dancing or singing, or even a quarter for warming up a horse for its owner.  He was not to be blamed for this, for, first of all, he was born in Kentucky, and had spent the very days of his infancy about the paddocks near Lexington, where his father had sacrificed his life on account of his love for horses.  The little fellow had shed no tears when he looked at his father’s bleeding body, bruised and broken by the fiery young two-year-old he was trying to subdue.  Patsy did not sob or whimper, though his heart ached, for over all the feeling of his grief was a mad, burning desire to ride that horse.