“Why, hello, Mose! Where are you going with all that plunder?” “I’se movin’, Mist’ Bob,” answered Mose. “Movin’ where?” “Movin’ into town—done rented a lil’ house down back behint de L. and N. depot.” “Why, I thought you liked the country?” said the white man. “I used to lak it,” said Mose. “I used to lak it powerful. But my wife she don’t lak the country. An’ yere lately I’ve tuck notice, Mist’ Bob, dat w’en my wife don’t lak a thing I jest natchelly hates it.” § 82 Almost Startling, Really In the days when Frank A. Munsey was in active editorial charge of his various publications he had a serious-minded office boy who took things literally—and with due deliberation. One day Congressman Thomas B. Reed, then Speaker of the House, came from Washington to New York and dropped into the office of _Munsey’s Magazine_ to see its proprietor. Between the famous publisher and the famous statesman a close bond of friendship existed—they were both sons of Maine, and they had been intimate associates for years. The bulky Reed stepped into the anteroom and without giving his name said he wished to see Mr. Munsey. The office boy told him Mr. Munsey was in conference and invited the caller to have a seat. More than half an hour passed before the caller was admitted to the inner room. Then he told Mr. Munsey how he had been kept waiting. Indignantly the latter issued forth and descended upon the youthful keeper of the outer gates. “Do you know who that gentleman is that you’ve kept dawdling about here?” he demanded. “That is the Hon. Thomas B. Reed of Maine!” “I’m sorry, Mr. Munsey,” said the youth. “I thought all the time it was Dr. John Hall.” “But don’t you know that Dr. Hall is dead?” said Mr. Munsey. “Yes, sir,” said Truthful James, “that was what made it seem so strange to me that he should be calling.” § 83 A Violent Indisposition A colored man, on appearing for work one morning, wore a countenance so battered that almost one might have been pardoned for assuming that its owner had made a more or less successful effort to run it through a meat chopper. The white man for whom the scarred and bruised victim worked took one look at that disfigured face and threw up both hands in horror and sympathy. “Great heavens, boy,” he cried, “what have you been doing to yourself?” “Me? I ain’t been doin’ nothin’ to myse’f,” explained the darky. “But somethin’ is done been did to me, Mr. Watkins. It’s lak dis, suh: Yistiddy evenin’ I got into a kind of an argymint wid another nigger an’ one word led to another, ez it will. An’ purty soon I up an’ hauled off an’ hit at him wid my fist.