The gray light of early morning crept into Shelter No. 6 through the open shutters. It brought to view two forms rolled in blankets, sleeping soundly before the dying embers of last night’s woodfire. In the back room, Dorothy was curled up on the fragrant bed of evergreens, deep in a dreamless slumber. The storm of the evening was gone, leaving in its place a fine, steady drizzle. The air was chill and damp. It bade fair to be another unpleasant day.
The hands of a battered alarm clock that stood on the chimney shelf marked quarter to eight, but the sleepers were motionless. Then suddenly Uncle Abe sat up and knuckled the sleep from his eyes.
“Lordy, Lordy!” he grumbled, catching sight of the clock. “Dose chillun wuz ter git ’way early an’ dis hye’r nigger sleepin’ lak de daid. I speck de young Missy an’ Marse Bill need der sleep—an’ we’ll fool Marse Joyce jus’ de same.”
He got stiffly to his feet, stretched his ancient arms above his head and set about building up the fire.
Presently Bill opened his eyes and yawned. Then he threw off his blanket, sat up and sniffed.
“Bacon—eggs—coffee,” he murmured. “Good morning, Uncle, you sure are an A1. up to the minute chef!”
Hovering over a sizzling frying pan, the old man turned his head and smiled at Bill.
“Mornin’, Marse Bill. Yaas, suh, I ’low dat eatin’ brekfus’ an’ gettin’ it, too, is de bes’ fashion what is.”
“You said it,” grinned Bill. “Say, I guess we all overslept! Well, no use crossing our bridges ’til we come to ’em. Any place in this hotel where I can wash and slick up a bit, Uncle?”
“Sho’ is, suh. De soap an’ de towel an’ de bucket an’ de basin is over yonder by de do’. When yo’alls done wid dem, p’raps yo’ll wake de young missy, an’ carry de bucket in yonder?”