“No, suh! no, suh! none that kaint wait till mawhnin’, suh,” Bo Peep assured him, adding to himself, “Tiahd as he is, he’s not gwine way out to Grass Riveh this blessed night, not if I loses my job of bein’ custodian of this huh ’stablishment. Not long’s my name’s Bone-ah-gees Peepehville, no, suh!”
Dr. Carey settled down for the evening with some inexplicable misgiving he could not overcome.
“I didn’t sleep well last night, Bo Peep,” he said when he rose late the next morning. “I reckon we doctors get so used to being called out on especially bad nights we can’t rest decently in our beds.”
“I didn’t sleep well, nutheh,” Bo Peep replied. “I kep 127 thinkin’ bout that man come heah foh you yestedy. I jes wa’n’t gwine to le’ yuh go out again las’ night.”
“What did he want?” the doctor asked, secretly appreciative of Bo Peep’s goodness of heart as he saw the street full of whirling snow.
“He done said hit wah a maturity case.”
Bo Peep tried to speak carelessly. In truth, his conscience had not left him in peace a moment.
“What do you mean? Who was it?” Horace Carey demanded.
“Don’t be mad, Doctah, please don’t. Hit wah cuz you all wah done woah out las’ night. Hit wah Misteh Shulley from Grass Riveh, suh. He said hit wah Misteh Asheh Aydelot’s wife—”
“For the love of God!” Horace Carey cried hoarsely, springing up. “Do you know who Mrs. Aydelot is, Bo Peep?”