“Mornin', mother,” said the young man, cheerfully. “Wheer's the governor?”
Mrs. Sennacherib screamed, and running at the new-comer began to embrace him and to kiss him and cry over him.
“Theer, theer!” he said, after kissing her off-hand. “Tek it easy.”
“Oh, Snac!” cried his mother, “if father should come in what should we do?”
“Do?” said the younger Sennacherib, “why, set me down afore the kitchen fire, an' mek me happetizin' afore he sets to work to eat me. How be you, mum?”
The younger Sennacherib's face was gay and impudent, with that peculiar mingling of gayety and impudence which seems inseparable from freckles. His face was mottled with freckles, and the backs of his hands were of a dark yellowish brown with them.
“This is Miss Rachel Blythe,” said his mother, “as was at school with me when I was a gell. This is my poor persecuted child, Miss Blythe.”
“Me, mum!” said the persecuted child, standing with his feet wide apart, and bending first one knee and then the other, and then bending both together. “The governor's out, is he?”
“He's only just gone,” returned his mother. “But, Snac, you'll only anger him, comin' in i' this way. You'd better wait a bit and let things blow over.”
“Well,” said Snac, “I shouldn't ha' come for any-thin' but business. But I've got a chance o' doin' a bit o' trade with him. He's had his mind set on Bunch's pony this two 'ear, an' Bunch an' him bein' at daggers drawn theer was niver a chance to buy it. But me an' him bein' split, old Bunch sells me the pony, and I called thinkin' he might like to have it.”