Pompous drew himself up portentiously and rubbed his forehead. He was not ready with the details of his falsehood. He was huge and slow.
“Why don’t you answer me?” impatiently demanded Hanson. “Where is your mistress?”
“Yes, sah. To be sho. Dat’s so, sah. De youn’ mist’ess, sah. Yas, sah. De youn’ mist’ess hab gone to Wash’town, sah. Yas, sah,” Pompous finally replied, with a grin of satisfaction.
He had got his story all right now.
“Your mistress gone to Washington?” demanded Hanson with a slight smile.
“Yas—yas, sah, to Washin’town city, sah. Yas, sah. It’s de sollum trufe, fo’ a fac’.”
“Oh, Pontius!” exclaimed Hanson, with a laugh. “Where do you expect to go to when you die, if you tell such stories?”
“Stories, sah!” exclaimed the negro, drawing himself up and pushing himself out. “I ’clar’ ’fo’ de Lor’——”
“Now don’t ruin your soul by swearing to a falsehood. You know it is a story, and I know it is a story. As I came up the avenue toward the house I saw your mistress standing on the front porch, with two children on the lawn below. When she saw me she ran down, took the children, led them into the house, and locked the door after her, just as I reached the steps.”
Pompous rubbed his head in sore perplexity.