“Yes; it seems to be mutual,” I could not help suggesting. “Either you or T’férgore is limbering him up until I do believe in the course of time his presence will become wholesome for me.”
Leander, drawing Jennie and the Old Daguerreotype in our red cart, went briskly down the road, and Julian and T’férgore and I sat watching them.
“They will loiter through the woods,” mused I, “and watch the festoons of grapevine, and get a sniff of sycamore leaves and pennyroyal mixed with loam.”
“Yes,” said Julian. “Next week I shall take you and Ferguson off through the woodsiest drive of them all.”
“Julian,” I remonstrated, “her name isn’t and it never will be Ferguson.”
“Oh, well,” said Julian, “the bill is laid on the table then. Another motion will be in order.”
“And they’ll see bunches of goldenrod in a thicket,” I continued, returning to Leander’s load, “and the Old Daguerreotype will jump out to get it for her, footing it lightsomely among the burrs.”
“You make quite a beau of our uncle,” said Julian, turning his cigar over.
“Well, I should think anybody could see that’s what he wants to be considered.”
“He has my consent,” said Julian.