Tom soon popped his head in at the door, and said, “Yer’s me, sir.”

“Yer’s me, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, “what sort of a way is this to build a fire?”

“I rispec you is bin kick um, sir,” said Tom.

“Hey?  What?  Well! suppose I did bin kick um, if it had been properly made, it would not have tumbled down.  Fix it this minute, sir!”

“I is gwine to fix um now, sir,” said Tom, fumbling at the fire.

“Well! fix it, sir, without having so much to say about it; you had better do more, and say less,” said Mr. Cleveland.

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom.

“You will keep answering me when there is no occasion!” exclaimed Mr. Cleveland; “I just wish I had my stick here, I’d crack the side of your head with it.”

“Yer’s de stick, sir,” said Tom, handing the walking cane out of the corner.

“Put it down, this instant, sir,” said Mr. Cleveland; “how dare you touch my stick without my leave?”

“I bin tink you bin say you bin want um, sir,” said Tom.

“You had better tink about your work, sir, and stop answering me, sir, or I’ll find a way to make you,” said Mr. Cleveland.  “Bring in some more light wood, and make the fire, and shut in the window shutters.  Do you hear me, sir?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Tom.

“Well, why don’t you answer, if you hear, then?  How am I to know when you hear me, if you don’t answer?” said Mr. Cleveland.

“I bin tink you bin tell me for no answer you, sir,” said Tom.

“I said when there was no occasion, boy; that’s what I said,” exclaimed Mr. Cleveland, reaching for his stick.”

“Yes, sir,” said Tom, as he went grinning out of the room.

Mr. Cleveland was, in the main, a very kind master, though somewhat hasty and impatient.  Tom and he were for ever sparring, yet neither could have done without the other; and there was something comical about Tom’s disposition which well suited his master’s eccentric and changeable moods.  Tom evidently served as a kind of safety valve for his master’s nervous system, and many an explosion of superfluous excitability he had to bear.

On the night in question, Mr. Cleveland was particularly out of sorts.  The truth is, he was naturally a generous, warm-hearted man, but in consequence of early disappointment, had lived a solitary life, and was really suffering for the want of objects of affection.  His feelings, unsatisfied, unemployed, yet morbidly sensitive, were becoming soured, and his untenanted heart often ached for want of sympathy.

He rose and took several diagonal turns across the room.  At length he opened a window, and looked out upon the stormy night.  “What confounded weather!” he muttered to himself, “it makes a man feel like blowing his brains out!  There are no two ways about it, I’m tired of life.  What have I to live for?  If I were to die to-morrow, who would shed a tear?”