§ 299 That Thick Hotel Crockery
A Northern man was stopping at a small hotel in Alabama. One night after he had retired there came a knocking at his door.
“Who is it?” he asked, sitting up in bed.
“Hit’s me, boss,” came the somewhat cryptic answer.
“Who’s ‘me’?”
“One of de bell-boys.”
“What do you want at this time of night?”
“Got a telegram fur you, boss.”
“Oh, that’s it? Well, it’s not very important, I guess. I’ll read it when I get up in the morning. Just shove it under the door.”
There was a pause. Then, in a voice made sharp by the fear of losing a tip, the darky spoke:
“I can’t—hit’s on a plate!”