“Dern your skin, ain’t the company good enough for you?” says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.

“Yes, it is good enough for me; it’s as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don’t blame you , gentlemen⁠—far from it; I don’t blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know⁠—there’s a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it’s always done, and take everything from me⁠—loved ones, property, everything; but it can’t take that. Some day I’ll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.” He went on a-wiping.

“Drot your pore broken heart,” says the baldhead; “what are you heaving your pore broken heart at us f’r? We hain’t done nothing.”