Then he discovered that she was already gone from the bed, her full ruffled night rail was spread out neatly to air, her cap perched on the post of the bed. Instantly his voice rose in the familiar falsetto shout.
“You, George! Get in here and mend this fire!”
The alacrity with which the man appeared, loaded to the chin with lightwood, betrayed that he had been waiting near for a summons. “Yes, sah, Gin’ral Jackson! Christmas gif’, sah!”
“Christmas gift! I’ll gift you with my boot if you don’t stir yourself.”
“Yes, sah!” George burst into delighted chuckles. He knew his master well. “Mist’iss say, don’t disturb Marse Jackson, she say, let Marse Jackson git he rest. I git a fine fire here toreckly.”
The embers stirred, the lightwood crackled and flamed. Andrew Jackson liked fire to roar as he liked horses to gallop and men to spring into action when he shouted an order. George swept the hearth and set the fire tools in order.
“Christmas gif’, Gin’ral,” he repeated meekly.
“Here!” Jackson tossed a two-shilling piece. George caught it in midair, grinned and bowed elaborately.
“Thankee, sah! Thankee! Does you go to town I git you to buy me some store galluses, please, sah? I like some red galluses, wid big brass buckles.”
“Keep your money. Buy candy with it. I’ll get you some red galluses. How you hitch your britches up now?”