“My God, brother,” he said to the grinning driver, “I tol' ye to hurry, but I didn't 'low you'd fly! How much d' I owe ye an' how do I git in hyeh?”
A giant in a gold-braided uniform had picked up the saddle-pockets when the little man turned.
“Well, now, that's clever of ye,” he said, thrusting out his hand, “I reckon you air the proprietor—how's the Pope?”
“Sure, I dunno, sor—this way, sor.” The astonished giant pointed to the swinging door and turned for light to the taxi man who, doubled with laughter over his wheel, tapped his forehead. At the desk the little man pushed his hat back and put both elbows down.
“Whar's the Pope?”
“The Pope!” From behind, the giant was making frantic signs, but the clerk's brow cleared. “Oh, yes—front!”
The little man gasped and swayed as the elevator shot upward, but a moment later the little judge of Happy Valley and the Pope of the Big Sandy were hand in hand.
“How're yo' folks, judge?”
“Stirrin'—how're you, Jim?”
“Ain't stirrin' at all.”