Finally one of the managers bustled up to him and said-- 'Who IS you, any way?
Who is you?
dat's what I wants to know!' The offender was not disconcerted in the least, but swelled himself up and threw that into his voice which showed that he knew he was not putting on all those airs on a stinted capital.
'Who IS I?
Who IS I?
I let you know mighty quick who I is! I want you niggers to understan' dat I fires de middle do'{footnote [Door]} on de "Aleck Scott!"' That was sufficient.
The barber of the 'Grand Turk' was a spruce young negro, who aired his importance with balmy complacency, and was greatly courted by the circle in which he moved.

The young colored population of New Orleans were much given to flirting, at twilight, on the banquettes of the back streets.
Somebody saw and heard something like the following, one evening, in one of those localities.

A middle-aged negro woman projected her head through a broken pane and shouted (very willing that the neighbors should hear and envy), 'You Mary Ann, come in de house dis minute! Stannin' out dah foolin' 'long wid dat low trash, an' heah's de barber offn de "Gran' Turk" wants to conwerse wid you!' My reference, a moment ago, to the fact that a pilot's peculiar official position placed him out of the reach of criticism or command, brings Stephen W---- naturally to my mind.

He was a gifted pilot, a good fellow, a tireless talker, and had both wit and humor in him.

He had a most irreverent independence, too, and was deliciously easy-going and comfortable in the presence of age, official dignity, and even the most august wealth.