§ 190 Practically Destitute
Tilted back in his chair on the boatstore porch overlooking the river sat Cap’n Joe Fowler, as typical a Kentuckian as the fag end of the last century produced. A packet bound from Cincinnati to New Orleans, landed. Up the steep slope of the wharf came a tourist lady from up North somewhere. In the crook of her arm this lady bore the first Mexican hairless dog Cap’n Joe had ever seen. The animal was no larger than a full grown rat; in fact it rather resembled a rat. It seemed a miserable, naked, sickly little thing which shivered even though the air was balmy and flinched with vague uneasiness at every sound.
As the lady drew close Cap’n Joe stood up and made a low bow to her.
“I beg your pardon, madam,” he said in his best company drawl, “but might a total stranger so far intrude upon you as to ask you a question?”
“You might” she said, her sharp accents in strong contrast to his deeper yet softer tones.
“Thank you, madam,” he said. “The question, madam, relates to the dog you air carrying. Is that your own dog?”
“It is,” she said.
“Is that the only dog you’ve got?”
“It is.”
“Madam,” said Cap’n Joe, “ain’t you mighty nigh out of dog?”