Ben—No. Don’t know what’s the matter with the goll-darned thing. ’Twon’t work, anyhow.
Robert—[Getting up and going for his hat.] Wait a minute and I’ll go look it over. There can’t be much the matter with it.
Ben—[Impudently.] Don’t make no diff’rence t’me whether there be or not. I’m quittin’.
Robert—[Anxiously.] You’re quitting? You don’t mean you’re throwing up your job here?
Ben—That’s what! My month’s up today and I want what’s owin’ t’me.
Robert—But why are you quitting now, Ben, when you know I’ve so much work on hand? I’ll have a hard time getting another man at such short notice.
Ben—That’s for you to figger. I’m quittin’.
Robert—But what’s your reason? You haven’t any complaint to make about the way you’ve been treated, have you?
Ben—No. ’Tain’t that. [Shaking his finger.] Look-a-here. I’m sick o’ bein’ made fun at, that’s what; an’ I got a job up to Timms’ place; an’ I’m quittin’ here.
Robert—Being made fun of? I don’t understand you. Who’s making fun of you?
Ben—They all do. When I drive down with the milk in the mornin’ they all laughs and jokes at me—that boy up to Harris’ and the new feller up to Slocum’s, and Bill Evans down to Meade’s, and all the rest on ’em.
Robert—That’s a queer reason for leaving me
