"Why, there's nothin' exactly
CRIMINAL about it," he said. "It belongs to old J. A. Lamb
himself. He keeps it for their coon chauffeur. I rent it from
him."
"From Mr. LAMB?"
"No; from the coon chauffeur."
"Walter!" she gasped.
"Sure I do! I can get it any night when the coon isn't goin' to
use it himself. He's drivin' their limousine to-night--that
little Henrietta Lamb's goin' to the party, no matter if her
father HAS only been dead less'n a year!" He paused, then
inquired: "Well, how d'you like it?"
She did not speak, and he began to be remorseful for having
imparted so much information, though his way of expressing regret
was his own. "Well, you WILL make the folks make me take you to
parties!" he said. "I got to do it the best way I CAN, don't I?"
Then as she made no response, "Oh, the car's CLEAN enough," he
said. "This coon, he's as particular as any white man; you
needn't worry about that." And as she still said nothing, he
added gruffly, "I'd of had a better car if I could afforded it.
You needn't get so upset about it."
"I don't understand--" she said in a low voice--"I don't
understand how you know such people."
"Such people as who?"
"As--coloured chauffeurs."
"Oh, look here, now!" he protested, loudly. "Don't you know this
is a democratic country?"
"Not quite that democratic, is it, Walter?"
"The trouble with you," he retorted, "you don't know there's
anybody in town except just this silk-shirt crowd.
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