“Well, I never tried,” said Pet, laughing; “and as I don’t know any oaths off by heart, I guess I won’t mind, for fear the effect would be a failure.”
“It’s a pity you don’t,” said Mrs. Gudge, thoughtfully; “all boys allers swears at the horses. You must look sassy—but that comes natural enough to you; and you had better smoke a pipe or chew some tobacco, on the road—which will you do, Miss Pet?”
“Well, really, Mrs. Gudge, I’d rather not do either, if it’s all the same to you,” said Pet; “but you mus’n’t keep calling me ‘Miss Pet,’ you know; my name’s Bob, now, Bob Gudge.”
“So it is. Laws! if it ain’t funny; but I’m afraid they’ll find you out if you don’t do none of those things. Can you whistle, Miss—Bob, I mean?”
For reply, Pet puckered up her rosy mouth, and whistled “Hail Columbia,” in a way that made little Mrs. Gudge’s eyes snap with delight.
“Here comes Bob!” she cried, as a gig came rattling into the yard. “You wait here a minute and I’ll fix things all right.”
Out flew Mrs. Gudge, and called off Bob to some secret corner, and then she showed her head in at the door and called:
“Come, now, Miss—Bob, and drive round to the front door while I tell the lady and gentleman all’s right now.”
Pet, imitating Bob’s shuffling swagger, went out to the yard, sprung up on the front seat, took the reins, and, in masterly style, turned the horses, and drove around to the front door.
Scarcely had she got there and struck up “Hail Columbia” in her shrillest key, than the dark, handsome gentleman with the “mustarchers” came out with the lady, who was still veiled, followed by the host and hostess, on whose faces rested a broad grin. Pet, with her cap pulled over her eyes, to shade them from the hot sun, and also to subdue their dark, bright splendor a little, sat whistling away, looking as cool as a cucumber, if not several degrees cooler.