His Irish and his African temperaments struggled together for expression.
"Bless my soul, Miss Miriam," he said; "nobody in this world ever brought me nuthin' to eat, 'cause they know'd I didn't need it, an' gittin' the best of livin' right here in your house, Miss Miriam, an' if they had brought it I wouldn't have took it an' swallowed the family pride; an' what's more, the doctor's cook didn't bring that pie on purpose for me.

She just comed down here to ax me how to make real good corn-cakes, knowin' that I was a fust-rate cook, an' could make corn-cakes, an' she wanted to know how to do it.

When I tole her jes' how to do it,--ash-cakes, griddle-cakes, batter-cake, every kin' of cake,--she was so mighty obligated that she took a little bit of a pie, made of meat, out of the bag what she'd brought along to eat on the way home, not feelin' hungry at lunch time, an' give it to me.

An' not wantin' to hurt her feelin's, I jes' took it, an' when I went to my house I het it an' eat it, an' bless your soul, Miss Miriam, it did taste good; for that there woman in the kitchen don't give me half enough to eat, an' never no corn-bread an' ham fat, which is mighty cheap, Miss Miriam, an' a long sight better for a workin' pusson than crusts of wheat bread a week old an'-- " "You don't mean to say," interrupted Miriam, "that Molly does not give you enough to eat?
I'll speak to her about that.

She ought to be ashamed of herself." "Now look here, Miss Miriam," said Mike, speaking more earnestly, "don't you go an' do that.