"Good godelmity! What's dat?"
Jarvis quietly walked across the room, to peer into the big stone fireplace.
"Oh, Marse Warren, I want to go home!"
Rusty had turned about, and his eyes took in two figures of ancient armor at the top of the broad half-flight of stairs, on a balcony daïs. He sank upon his knees and bobbed his head to the floor in obeisance.
"What's the matter?" and Jarvis whirled about, with revolver drawn. His own nerves were beginning to get too taut, with the tension exaggerated by the superstition and fright of the negro.
"Look! Look! Look at dem big black boogies standin' dere, Marse Warren. See 'em standin' dere?"
Jarvis laughed and put his gun into his side pocket.
"They're the same black things that scared you before, don't you remember?"
"Oh, I'm so skeered, boss, dat I can't remember nuthin' at all."
"Get up on your pins—they're nothing but old suits of armor, and you're liable to get some moonlight through you, Rusty, if there's another rear-end collision like that. You've been treading on my heels every step I take, and when I stop you bump into me."