With unfeminine neglect of the chance for petty discussion, his
wife left the room without replying, and descended to the hotel
lobby. Here she was directed toward a very ragged, very woe-begone
young black on the rear porch, who, at sight of her, began to
fumble his hat and run his words together so excitedly that she
was forced to calm him.
"Now, now! I can't understand a word. Who are you?"
"H'Allan, mistress."
"You say some one is ill?"
"Oh yes, he is very h'ill h'indeed, mistress--h'all covered with
blood and his poor 'ands h'all cut."
"Who--?"
"And his 'ead--oh, Lard! His 'ead is cut, too, and he suffers a
fever."
"WHO IS IT?"
"Mr. h'Auntony--"
"Anthony!" Mrs. Cortlandt started. "What has happened? Quick!"
Seeing that at last he had found a friend, the Jamaican began to
sob with relief, wailing extravagant praises to God and apparently
endeavoring to kiss Mrs. Cortlandt's hand, whereat she seized him
by the shoulders and shook him, crying:
"Stop that! Behave yourself and tell me what is the trouble,
quickly now, from the beginning."
Without drying his tears, Allan launched himself into the full
violence of his recital, stumbling recklessly over his figures of
speech, lapsing into idioms that it taxed his hearer to follow.
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