"A free dog, eh? Well, on your account, I'm sorry for that, Guinea. Dogs without masters fare hard."
"So dey do, sar; so dey do. But you see, sar, dese here legs? What ge'mman want to own dese here legs?"
"But where do you live?"
"All 'long shore, sar; dough now I'se going to see brodder at der landing; but chiefly I libs in der city."
"St. Louis, ah? Where do you sleep there of nights?"
"On der floor of der good baker's oven, sar."
"In an oven? whose, pray? What baker, I should like to know, bakes such black bread in his oven, alongside of his nice white rolls, too. Who is that too charitable baker, pray?"
"Dar he be," with a broad grin lifting his tambourine high over his head.
"The sun is the baker, eh?"
"Yes sar, in der city dat good baker warms der stones for dis ole darkie when he sleeps out on der pabements o' nights."
"But that must be in the summer only, old boy. How about winter, when the cold Cossacks come clattering and jingling? How about winter, old boy?"
"Den dis poor old darkie shakes werry bad, I tell you, sar. Oh sar, oh! don't speak ob der winter," he added, with a reminiscent shiver, shuffling off into the thickest of the crowd, like a half-frozen black sheep
