“I hab heern it called a many hard names, Miss, but I nebber heered it called Dissemblance afore,” replied the negro driver.
“Well, then, hold your tongue and mind your horses, or you’ll upset me,” rather irrelevantly concluded Miss Grip.
When the rickety carryall drew up before the old iron gate in the old stone wall that enclosed the stern-looking gray-stone house, Miss Grip gave voice once more.
“Is it a police-station, or a penitentiary, or a warehouse, or a fort, or something of the sort? This never was meant for a gentleman’s private residence.”
But she did not even wait to cross the threshold before she seized the reins of government. As soon as she alighted from the carryall she began to issue her orders to the driver.
“Take the carriage around to the stables—of course there are stables and you must find them—put up the carriage, feed and water the horses, then come around to the kitchen. You must get your supper before you go back. Stop! take my trunk off first and bring it up into the house.”
The driver began to obey these orders as the brisk little woman ran up the steps and sounded an alarm on the iron knocker.
Laban opened the door, and the driver carried in the trunk and put it down on the hall floor and departed about his other business.
“How is your master?” sharply demanded Miss Grip of the astonished negro.
“Jes’ de same,” replied the man, as if the answer had been rapped out of him.