“You mean the Sequins are having a party, tonight?”
“Yas, sir.”
“But aren't they expecting me? Didn't they get my telegram?”
“I dunno, sir. Dey nebber said nothin' to me.”
The stranger stood with feet apart, watch in hand, and a grim expression on the only part of his face visible between his cap and his upturned collar.
“What time is the next train back to town?”
“Dey ain't none, 'ceptin' de special, what's hired to take de party back to town. Dat goes 'bout two o'clock.”
“I'll wait for it,” said the stranger, flinging his bag against the waiting-room door and beginning to pace restlessly up and down the snow-covered platform.
But this did not meet with Uncle Jimpson's ideas of hospitality.
“Dey nebber knowed you wuz comin',” he argued. “I jes know dey didn't. But dat won't hinder 'em fum bein' powerful glad to see you. Better git in, Boss, an' lemme dribe you up dere.”