“Yes'm, dat's right. But you allays has to 'low fer dem narrow gauges. Dey has to run slow to keep from fallin' offen de track. Dat must have been de ten o'clock train you come on.”
“Not at all, I left the city at ten minutes of eleven.”
“Yas'm, dat was de ten train den. De leben train don't start 'til long about noon.”
“Preposterous!” said Mrs. Sequin, sweeping to her feet. “Take me to the carriage. Fanchonette! Where are you?”
Uncle Jimpson apologetically dragged forward his left foot, upon the trouser hem of which the small dog had fastened her sharp little teeth.
“Frightfully obstinate little beast,” said Mrs. Sequin, “she won't let go until she gets ready. You needn't be afraid of her biting you. She couldn't be induced to bite a colored person.”
Uncle Jimpson, carrying the dog along on his foot, led the way, while Mrs. Sequin, with the cautious tread of a stout person used to the treacheries of oriental rugs on hardwood floors, followed. She was a woman of full figure and imposing presence, whose elaborate coiffure and attention to detail in dress, gave evidence that the world had its claims.
At sight of the shabby, old, mud-covered buggy, and the decrepit apostolic John she paused.
Jimpson all obsequious politeness, put a linen duster over the wheel, and with a gesture worthy of Chesterfield, handed her in.
“I wish the top up,” she commanded. “The glare is unspeakable.”