"Never you mind. It's the last one you'll do for me," retorted Lance.
"Did I tell you you couldn't have the honor of washing for me anymore,
Aunt Basha?"

Aunt Basha was wreathed in smiles.

"Yassir, young marse. You tole me dat mo'n tree times befo', a'ready,
sir."

"Well--it's final this time. Can't stand your prices. I _can't_ stand
your exorbitant prices. Now what do you have the heart to charge for
dusting off those three old shirts and two and a half collars? Hey?"

Aunt Basha, entirely serene, was enjoying the game. "What does I
charges, sir? Fo' dat wash, which you slung 'round acrost de room, sir?
Well, sir, young marse, I charges fo' dollars 'n sev'nty fo' cents, sir,
dis week. Fo' dat wash."

Lance let loose a howl and flung himself into his chair as if
prostrated, long legs out and arms hanging to the floor. Aunt Basha
shook with laughter. This was a splendid joke and she never, never tired
of it. "You see!" he threw out, between gasps. "Look at that! _Fo'_
dollars 'n sev'nty _fo'_ cents." He sat up suddenly and pointed a big
finger, "Aunt Basha," he whispered, "somebody's been kidding you.
Somebody's lied. This palatial apartment, much as it looks like it, is
not the home of John D. Rockefeller." He sprung up, drew an imaginary
mantle about him, grasped one elbow with the other hand, dropped his
head into the free palm and was Cassius or Hamlet or Faust--all one to
Aunt Basha. His left eyebrow screwed up and his right down, and he