'Twas years befure I see him again. Wan day I was walkin' up th' levee
smokin' a good tin cint seegar whin a coon wearin' a suit iv clothes
that looked like a stained glass window in th' house iv a Dutch brewer
an' a pop bottle in th' fr-ront iv his shirt, steps up to me an' he
says: 'How dy'e do, Mistah Dooley,' says he. 'Don't ye know me--Mistah
Hicks?' he says. 'Snowball,' says I. 'Step inside this dureway,' says I,
'less Clancy, th' polisman on th' corner, takes me f'r an octoroon,' I
says. 'What ar-re ye do-in'?' says I. 'How did ye enjye th' prisidincy?'
says I. He laughed an' told me th' story iv his life. He wint to
practisin' law an' found his on'y clients was coons, an' they had no
assets but their vote at th' prim'ry. Besides a warrant f'r a moke was
the same as a letther iv inthroduction to th' warden iv th' pinitinchry.
Th' on'y thing left f'r th' lawyer to do was to move f'r a new thrile
an' afther he'd got two or three he thought ol' things was th' best an'
ye do well to lave bad enough alone. He got so sick iv chicken he
cudden't live on his fees an' he quit th' law an' wint into journalism.
He r-run 'Th' Colored Supplimint,' but it was a failure, th' taste iv
th' public lanin' more to quadhroon publications, an' no man that owned
a resthrant or theaytre or dhrygoods store'd put in an adver-tisemint
f'r fear th' subscribers'd see it an' come ar-round.
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