Nelson evidently rents rooms. A yellow sallow-faced, cadaverous, and
dissatisfied looking "gentleman" went into the house eyeing me
suspiciously as he passed. In a moment he was out again interrupting the
old man with pointless remarks. In--out again--standing over me--peering
on my paper in the offensive way that ill-bred people have. He
straightened up with a disgusted look on his face. He couldn't read
shorthand.
"What's that you're writin'?"
"Shorthand."
"What's that about?"
"History."
"History uv whut?"
"Slavery."
"He don't know nothin' about slavery."
"Thank you. However, if he says he does, I'll just continue to listen to
him if you don't mind."
"Humph," and the "yellow gentleman" passed in.
Out again--eyeing both the old man and me with disgust that was
unconcealed. To him, "You don't know whutchu're doin'."
Deep silence by all. Exit the yellow brother.