“Let on ter Boss,” he charged the envoy, “ez—ez—that thar jedgmint an' execution issued war jes' formal—ye mought say—jes' ter hev all the papers reg'lar.”
By virtue of more attrition with the world the mail-rider was more sophisticated than his enemy, and sooth to say, more sophistical.
“Boss is writ-proof, the old fool, though he war minded ter cut me out'n my levy if he could! But waal, jes' tell him from me ez we-uns hev hed a heap o' pleasure in the baby's company in the Chris 'mus, an' we-uns expec' ter borry him some whenst they all gits home!”
To the child's kindred the news was as if he had risen from the dead, and the gratitude of the Gilhooleys to Petrie knew no bounds. They had accounted the baby drowned when, missing him, they had retraced their way, finding naught but a bit of old blanket on which he had lain, close to the verge of the cruel river. Boss Gilhooley, softened and rendered tractable by exile and sorrow, upon his return lent himself to an affected warmth toward Peter Petrie which gradually assumed all the fervors of sincerity. The neighbors indeed were moved to say that the two friends and ancient enemies, when both on all fours and barking for the delight of the baby, were never so little like dogs in all their lives.
Thus a child shall lead them.