A young fellow who was the crack sprinter of his town--somewhere in the
South--was unfortunate enough to have a very dilatory laundress. One
evening, when he was out for a practice run in his rather airy and
abbreviated track costume, he chanced to dash past the house of that
dusky lady, who at the time was a couple of weeks in arrears with his
washing.
He had scarcely reached home again when the bell rang furiously and an
excited voice was wafted in from the porch:
"Foh de Lawd's sake! won't you-all tell Marse Bob please not to go out
no moh till I kin git his clo'es round to him?'"