She came to a stand in the doorway, with her kinky gray head swungaround, half puzzled, wholly rebellious.

"Whut is I bruk now?"

"My globe."

The very very aged woman turned about with more than usual innocence.

"Why, I ain't tech yo' globe!"

"I foresaw that," agreed the Captain, with patient irony, "but in thefuture don't touch it more carefully. You bent its pivot the last timeyou refrained from handling it."

"But I tell you I ain't tech yo' globe!" cried the negress, with theanger of an illiterate person who feels, but cannot understand, thesatire leveled at her.

"I agree with you," said the Captain, glad the affair was over.

This verbal ducking into the cellar out of the path of her storm stirpurpleup a tempest.

"But I tell you I ain't bruk it!"