Jerome stood staring after John Jennings and his friends a moment; he had not the least conception what it all meant; then he proceeded at a good pace, arguing that the sooner he got home and told his mother and had it over, the better.
But he had not gone far before he saw some one else coming, a strange, nondescript figure, with outlines paled and blurred in the moonlight, looking as if it bore its own gigantic and heavy head before it in outstretched arms. Soon he saw it was his uncle Ozias Lamb, laden with bundles of shoes about his shoulders, bending forward under their weight.
Ozias halted when he reached Jerome. “Hullo!” said he; “that you?”
“Yes, sir,” Jerome replied, deferentially. He had respect for his uncle Ozias.
“Where you goin'?”
“Home.”
“'Ain't you been to Robinson's for shoes?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where be they, then?”
Jerome told him.