“Why, I ain't tech yo' globe!”
“I foresaw that,” agreed the Captain, with patient irony, “but in the future don't touch it more carefully. You bent its pivot the last time you refrained from handling it.”
“But I tell you I ain't tech yo' globe!” cried the negress, with the anger of an illiterate person who feels, but cannot understand, the satire leveled at her.
“I agree with you,” said the Captain, glad the affair was over.
This verbal ducking into the cellar out of the path of her storm stirred up a tempest.
“But I tell you I ain't bruk it!”
“That's what I said.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she flared; “you says I ain't, but when you says I ain't, you means I is, an' when you says I is, you means I ain't. Dat's de sort o' flapjack I's wuckin' fur!”
The woman flirted out of the dining-room, and the old gentleman drew another long breath, glad it was over. He really had little reason to quarrel about the globe, bent or unbent; he never used it. It sat in his study year in and year out, its dusty twinkle brightened at long intervals by old Rose's spiteful rag.
The Captain ate on placidly. There had been a time when he was dubious about such scenes with Rose. Once he felt it beneath his dignity as a Southern gentleman to allow any negro to speak to him disrespectfully. He used to feel that he should discharge her instantly,
