The black man jumped. In a miraculously short time, considering the magnitude of the order, he staggered in from his cubby-hole of a kitchen at the rear bearing a waiter tray piled high with dishes. He ranged the array of food in a half moon effect before his patron and then fluttered back a few paces. When the bad man had eaten he leaned back in his chair, drew a spring-back dirk knife out of his pocket, flipped its five-inch blade out with a nudge of a practiced thumb and leisurely picked his teeth with its needle-like point. His caterer watched him as a fascinated bird watches a coiled serpent. Suddenly he spoke and the negro jumped. “What sort of a dump does that other nigger over acrost the tracks run?” he asked. “Oh, you wouldn’t lak dat place a-tall,” stated the colored man. “Dat nigger natchelly thinks a fly is somethin’ you cooks wid. He ain’t sanitatious, lak I aims to be.” “Yes,” said the bully, “and whut’s more, he’s a robber—he’s a regular pirate.” “Is dat so, suh?” “Well, judge for yourself. Last night I went into that nigger’s joint and ordered just about what I’ve had here to-night—maybe a little more, maybe a little less. When I got through I asked him what the damage was and, do you know, that black scoundrel had the gall to ask me for a dollar and a quarter? Of course I oughter killed him. In fact, I got up intendin’ to kill him. But something sort of stayed my hand. All I done to him was just to cut off both his ears with this here frog-sticker and feed ’em to him. By the way, what do I owe you for this mess of vittles?” “Boss,” said the darky, “I reckon a dime would be ample.” § 78 How to Beat the System The late “Tiny” Maxwell was a sporting writer in Philadelphia. He was called “Tiny” because he weighed nearly three hundred pounds. He had a ready wit. Because he was an expert at football and also because back in his college days he was a gridiron star of magnitude, Mr. Maxwell frequently was called upon to referee games along the Eastern Seaboard. One afternoon he was officiating at a match between Georgetown, which, as everybody knows, is a Catholic institution, and a team representing a Southern university. In an interval one of the Southern players limped up to Maxwell. “Mr. Referee,” he said, “I want to make a protest. There’s one of those Georgetown men that seems to have a private grudge against me. Every time we two get in a scrimmage together he bites me. Yes, sir, he just hauls off and bites me. I don’t want to start any rough house stuff, but I’m getting good and tired of having that big Irishman biting on me. What had I better do?” “I should advise,” said Maxwell, “that you play him only on Fridays.” § 79 An Echo from 1865