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Updated: August 15, 2024
This little party had scarce disappeared before there came another visitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored up the stair and halted at the door. "Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's the matter?" "You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You 'membehs me?"
The negro woman ceased her sobbing as she took the bill. "Ten dollahs," said she, "ten dollahs for dat baby! Dat'll buhy him right fine, it sho' will, Mr. Edd'ron. You'se a fine man, Mr. Edd'ron, 'deed you is." Eddring smiled bitterly. He paced up and down the room, his head bent down. Presently he turned to his assistant. "Go on over to the depot," said he, "and see if there is any more mail.
"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the street crossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it getting along?" "Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid." "What? Oh, pshaw!" "Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shook with sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. The weary look came back again into his eyes.
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