Kennedy Square by Francis Hopkinson Smith
page 9 of 443 (02%)
page 9 of 443 (02%)
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Todd kept up his double shuffle with everything going--hands, feet, and knees--thrashed his arms about his chest and back to keep up the circulation and with a final grimace in the direction of the old cook maintained his watch. "I spec's it's de fog dat's kep' 'em," he muttered anxiously, his feet still in action. "Dat bay boat's mos' allus late,--can't tell when she'll git in. Only las' week--Golly!--dar he is--DAT'S HIM!" A mud-bespattered gig was swinging around the corner into the Square, and with a swerve in its course was heading to where Todd stood. The boy sprang down the steps: "Yere he is, Aunt Jemima!" he shouted, as if the old cook could have heard him through three brick walls. The gig came to a stand-still and began to unload: first the dogs, who had been stowed under their master's feet since they left the steamboat wharf, and who with a clear bound to the sidewalk began scouring in mad circles, one after another, up and down Todd's immaculate steps, the four in full cry until the entire neighborhood was aroused, the late sleepers turning over with the remark--"Temple's at home," and the early risers sticking their heads out of the windows to count the ducks as they were passed out. Next the master: One shapely leg encased in an English-made ducking boot, then its mate, until the whole of his handsome, well-knit, perfectly healthy and perfectly delightful body was clear of the cramped conveyance. |
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