“Didn't you speak of him a while ago; wasn't he the dog?”
“Yas, sir. He's our dog. He's stayin' wif Miss Ferney Foster what libes down beyond de blacksmith's on de other side de pike. He don't lak it no better'n we do; he's homesick, too.”
They had reached a pretentious white gateway, and Uncle Jimpson, recalled to a sense of his duties, drew himself up from his slouching posture, crooked his elbow and rounded the curve as if he had been driving a tally-ho. Through the bare trees above them blazed the magnificent proportions of Angora Heights, with its pretentious assembly of stables, garage and servants' quarters in the rear.
“Ye gods!” exclaimed the stranger under his breath; “is this all of it?”
“Naw, sir!” Uncle Jimpson denied emphatically; “if hit wuz daytime you could see de Ramparts an' de Estanade. Over dere is de Lygoon. 'Tain't nothin' shore 'nuff but our ole pond where we uster ketch bullfrogs, but Mrs. Sequin she tole me to call hit de Lygoon. You see dem carvins ober de door? Dat figger goin' up dat Egyptions stairway is John Dark. Didn't you nebber heah 'bout John Dark? He wuz a woman what fit a battle onct.”
“Cut around to the side there, out of the way of the motors,” directed the stranger, who seemed much more concerned in making a quiet entrance into the mansion than in studying its architectural features. “Here's something to put in the toe of your Christmas stocking, and another for Caroline. Hurry up!”
He vaulted lightly over the wheel and turned to take his bag. As he did so the light from the conservatory window above fell full upon his upturned face.
“Fore de Lawd!” cried Uncle Jimpson, a broad grin splitting his face almost in two. “I might 'a' knowed dat de only gemman in de world what tipped lak dat wuz Mr. Don Morley!”