“Yes,” he said, “that will answer—like a light supper.”
“There may be an objection, after all, to taking over Colonel Duval’s old servants,” he reflected. “It may be difficult to persuade them that he is no longer the master. I run the chance of being ruled by a dead man.”
Presently his luggage arrived, and he went upstairs to unpack. Moses looked, in wonder, at the wardrobe trunk, with every suit on a separate hanger, the drawers for shirts and linen, the apartments for hats, and collars, and neckties, and the shoes standing neatly in a row below.
“Whar’s de use atak’in de things out t’al, Marster Croyden!” he exclaimed.
“So as to put the trunk away.”
“Sho’! I mo’nt a kno’d hit. Hit’s mons’us strange, seh, whar yo mon’t a’ kno’d ef yo’d only stop to t’ink. F’ instance, I mon’t a kno’d yo’d cum back to Clarendon, seh, some day, cuz yo spends yo money on hit. Heh!”
Then a bell tinkled softly from below. 58
“Dyar’s dinner—I means lunch, seh,” said Moses. “’Scuse me, seh.”
“And I’m ready for it,” said Croyden, as he went to the iron wash-stand, and then slowly down stairs to the dining-room.
From some place, Moses had resurrected a white coat, yellow with its ten years’ rest, and was waiting to receive him. He drew out Croyden’s chair, as only a family servant of the olden times can do it, and bowed him into his place.