“It’s my respec’ful compliments to Mis’ Dorothy, sah,” answered the boy.
“Thank you, Dick!” said the girl. “I appreciate the attention. But where is Ben?”
“Bro’ Ben he dun got religion, Mis’ Dorothy, an’ he dun taken two blue pills las’ night, an’—”
“Give him a dose of Epsom salts at once, Dick,” broke in Arthur, “or he’ll be salivated. And don’t give him oxalic acid by mistake. I’ll trouble you to keep your fingers out of the medicine chest hereafter. Come, Dorothy!”
But as Dorothy was about to put her foot into Arthur’s hand and spring from it into the saddle, Dick drew forth a white handkerchief, heavily perfumed with a cooking extract of lemon, and offered it to Dorothy, saying:
“You haint rubbed de hosses, Mis’ Dorothy, to see ef dey’s clean ’nuff fer dis suspicious occasion.”
Dick probably meant “auspicious,” but he was accustomed, both in prose and in verse, to require complaisant submission to his will on the part of the English language.
“Did you clean them, Dick?” asked Dorothy with a little laugh.
“I’se proud to say I did,” answered the boy.
“Then there is no need for me to rub them,” she replied. “You always do your work well. Your master tells me so. And now I want you to take this handkerchief of mine, and keep it for your own. I bought it in Paris, Dick. You can carry it in your breast pocket, with a corner of the lace protruding—sticking out, you know. And if you will come to me when we get back from our ride, I’ll give you a bottle of something better than a cooking extract to perfume it with.”