Hot Pies — 151
One freezing February morning a negro hawked mutton pies in a basket around Faneuil Hall Square, roaring out, “Hot mutton pies!” “Hot mutton pies!” A teamster bought and tried to bite one, but found it frozen as solid as the curb-stone. “What do you call them hot for, you black and blue swindler?” yelled the teamster to the shivering pieman. “Wy, wy, a white man guv ’em to me hot dis mornin’. Dey was hot wen I got ’em dis mornin’!” “Well, you fool, it didn’t take ten minutes to freeze them in that old basket. Why call them hot now?” “Wy, bless you, dats de name ob ’em—de name ob ’em! If I didn’t holler de right name nobody would tetch ’em. You want me to holler froze pies, I suppose! No, sa; you can’t fool me dat way!”