by reason of his master's large acquaintance--in either
crooking his back in the beginning of a bow, or
straightening it up in the ending of one.

To one and all inquiries for Mr. Horn his answer
during the morning hours was invariably the same:

"Yes, sah, Marse Richard's in his li'l room wrastlin'
wid his machine, I reckon. He's in dar now, sah--"
this with another low bow, and then slowly recovering
his perpendicular with eyes fixed on the retreating
figure, so as to be sure there was no further need
of his services, he would resume his work, drenching
the steps again with soap-suds or rubbing away on the
door-plate or door-pull, stopping every other moment
to blow his breath on the polished surface.

When, however, someone asked for young Oliver,
the inventor's only son, the reply was by no means
so definite, although the smile was a trifle broader and
the bow, if anything, a little more profound.

"Marse Oliver, did you say, sah? Dat's a difficult
question, sah. Fo' Gawd I ain't seen him since breakfas'.
You might look into Jedge Ellicott's office if
you is gwine downtown, whar dey do say he's studyin'
law, an' if he ain't dar--an' I reckon he ain't--den
you might drap in on Mister Crocker, whar Marse
Oliver's paintin' dem pictures; an' if he ain't dar,
den fo-sho he's wid some o' do young ladies, but which