The dog submitted to the caress gravely and sat down, looking up into his master’s face with deep sympathetic eyes.
Adown through the woods came a voice in rollicking song:
“Massar gone away, de darkey say ‘Ho! ho!’
Mus’ be now dat de kingdom’s comin’
I’ de year ob jubiloo.”
“That’s Bill, pup,” laughed Boy. “He always sings when he’s washin’ his breakfast dishes. Come on, let’s go over and borrow his pitch-fork. You and me have got to dig taters to-day.”
A few hundred yards further on they found the singer. He was clad in Bushwhacker buckskins from head to foot.
“Hello, Boy, how’s your ma?” he called as he caught sight of the visitors.
“Just about the same, I guess,” Boy answered. “Nobody up when I left, so I can’t just say how ma spent the night. Want to borrow your fork, Bill.”
“Take it and anythin’ else you see as you’d like. Say, won’t you step in the house and have a cup of tea?”