The front of the hotel was deserted, the women being busy in the rear with their morning duties, and the usual hangers-on not being about.
Mr. Maybee, who was lying on a bed in the bottom of the wagon, sat up as the cavalcade paused, and cried:
“Ma’ Jane! Ma’—Jane!”
“Ya’as,” screamed a female voice from the rear, not “like a song from afar;” or, if so, it was set in four sharps. “What’s up neow?”
To which Maybee, probably reckoning on the magnetic attraction of female curiosity, made no reply, which diplomatic course instantly drew his worthy better half—a big one, too—and far better than her vocal organ. She came followed by the cook, Aunt Vinnie, and ’Tavius. “Law sakes!” she cried, sticking her plump arms akimbo and staring in amazement at the company before her, “if it ain’t Ebenezer—an’ the Englishman—an’ Jude!—an’ ’Nona!!” Her astonishment could go no farther. The next instant she had folded the girlish form in her arms in an agony of joy.
“My precious child! Thank heaven we’ve got you back safe! It’s been an awful time fer you.”
“Wall, darn my skin!” cried Maybee, wiping his own eyes in sympathy with the weeping woman, “here’s me, wyounded an’ dyin’, been a stranger an’ a pilgrim in hos-tile parts fer months, an’ when I git home the wife of my bosom ain’t no eyes fer me nor tears nuther—everybody else is fus’. I call all you boys to witness my treatment; I enter a suit for devorce at once. Ma’ Jane, I’m goin’ ter leave your bed an’ board.”
“You ain’t no call to be jealous, Maybee, as you well know. Ef you’re sick, I’ll nuss you; ef you’re hungry, I’ll feed you.”
Then these pilgrims of the dusty roads received a royal welcome from the bewildered woman. Their brown hands were shaken, their torn clothes embraced, their sunburnt faces kissed with a rapture that was amazing.
“Come in, everybody. ’Tavius, git a move on with them hosses and things! Vinnie, stop your grinnin’ an’ hustle with the dinner.”