“De yittle w’ite gal were a pet orphin, wot de youn’ mist’ess ’dopted to fetch up; yes, sah.”
“Your mistress is very fond of that child?”
“She is, sah,” Pompous replied with curt dignity.
“That will do. Give my respects to your mistress, and tell her that she shall hear from me again, and in another way.”
“Couldn’ do dat, neider, sah, no mo’ ’an I could take in yo’ keerd. My o’ders is to fetch no messidge.”
“No matter. She shall hear from me all the sooner, and all the more to the purpose,” muttered Hanson as he turned away from the house, walked down the avenue, and got into the railway hack that was waiting for him on the outside of the gate.
Pompous led his dog back to the kennels, saying to her in an apologetic tone:
“I knows yo’s disapp’inted, po’ doag. I knows yo’ wanted to chaw dat willian. But I darsen’ lef’ yo’, Tige. De law is so onsartin. Ef I had lef’ yo’ chaw him it might ’a’ hung me.”
He put the beast in with her pups and turned and walked leisurely toward the house. Pompous seldom compromised his dignity by hurrying; perhaps he could not, on account of his immense weight.
“Now I gwine tell my youn’ mist’ess how I sca’ dat ’truder ’way,” he said to himself as he entered the presence of the lady, and bowed.