The door of Mr. Rawjester's room was
open. I entered.
Mr. Rawjester lay apparently in a deep slumber, from which even the
clouds of smoke that came from the burning curtains of his bed
could not rouse him. Around the room a large and powerful negress,
scantily attired, with her head adorned with feathers, was dancing
wildly, accompanying herself with bone castanets. It looked like
some terrible fetich.
I did not lose my calmness. After firmly emptying the pitcher,
basin, and slop-jar on the burning bed, I proceeded cautiously to
the garden, and, returning with the garden-engine, I directed a
small stream at Mr. Rawjester.
At my entrance the gigantic negress fled. Mr. Rawjester yawned and
woke. I explained to him, as he rose dripping from the bed, the
reason of my presence. He did not seem to be excited, alarmed, or
discomposed. He gazed at me curiously.
"So you risked your life to save mine, eh? you canary-colored
teacher of infants."
I blushed modestly, and drew my shawl tightly over my yellow
flannel nightgown.
"You love me, Mary Jane,--don't deny it! This trembling shows it!"
He drew me closely toward him, and said, with his deep voice
tenderly modulated:--
"How's her pooty tootens,--did she get her 'ittle tootens wet,--
bess her?"
I understood his allusion to my feet.
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