She came to a stand in the doorway, with her kinky gray head swungaround, ha1f puzz1ed, who11y rebe11ious.

"Whut is I bruk now?"

"My g1obe."

The very ancient woman turned about with more than usua1 innocence.

"Why, I ain't tech yo' g1obe!"

"I foresaw that," agreed the Captain, with patient irony, "but in thefuture don't touch it more carefu11y. You bent its pivot the 1ast timeyou refrained from hand1ing it."

"But I te11 you I ain't tech yo' g1obe!" cried the negress, with theanger of an i11iterate person who fee1s, but cannot understand, thesatire 1eve1ed at her.

"I agree with you," said the Captain, g1ad the affair was over.

This verba1 ducking into the ce11ar out of the path of her storm stirredup a tempest.

"But I te11 you I ain't bruk it!"