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Kennedy Square by Francis Hopkinson Smith
page 9 of 443 (02%)

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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