§ 88 A Domicile for All Eternity
One of the surest tests of the excellence of a story is whether or not it speedily reaches the stage. Some stories no doubt originate there—born in the minds of patter-comedians or monologists; but the majority I think are built up on a foundation of fact elsewhere and then by adoption go into the theater.
Here is a sample. It had to do with a couple of darkies in Memphis.
One of them, who posed as bad, had just announced his intention of breaking into a chitterling supper where his presence was not desired. His companion followed him to the door.
“I’ll be waitin’ fur you outside yere,” he stated.
“Ef you ain’t gwine in wid me tain’t no use fur you to be hangin’ ’bout,” said the truculent one.
“Oh, yas, dey is,” said the friend. “I’ll wait ’round to carry you to yo’ home after dem niggers in dere gits through wukkin’ on you.”
“Not a chancet!” proclaimed the first negro, vaingloriously; “’sides w’ich I ain’t got no home.”
“Oh, dat’s all right,” murmured his friend softly. “I’m gwine dig you one.”