“Wall, stranger, if you will insist on knowin’,” said he, “It’s sympathy that makes me grin. I do like to see human natur’ out of its go-to-meetin’ togs, with its saddle off, an’ no bridal on, spurtin’ around in gushin’ simplicity. But you’re wrong, stranger,” continued the driver, with a grave look, “quite wrong in callin’ me a koonisquat. I have dropt in the social scale, but I ain’t got quite so low as that, I guess, by a long chalk.”
“Well, you compound of Welshman and Yankee, be off and refresh yourself,” returned my father, putting an extra dollar, over and above his fare, into the man’s hand, “but don’t consume it on your filthy fire-water cock-tails, or gin-slings, or any other kind of sling-tails. If you must drink, take it out in strong hot coffee.”
The man drove off, still grinning, and I hurried my father into the cottage where, while I set before him a good luncheon, he gave me a wildly rambling and interjectional account of his proceedings since the date of his last letter to me.
“But why did you take me by surprise in this way, dear daddy; why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“Because I like to take people by surprise, especially ill-doing scapegraces like—by the way,” said my father, suddenly laying down his knife and fork, “where is she?”
“Where is who?”
“She—her, of course; the—the girl, the Hottentot, the savage. Oh! George, what an ass you are!”
“If you mean Eve, sir,” said I, “she is away from home—and everybody else along with her. That comes of your taking people by surprise, you see. Nobody prepared to receive you; nothing ready. No sheets aired even.”
“Well, well, Punch, my boy, don’t be sharp with your old father. I won’t offend again. By the way,” he added, quickly, “you’re not married yet? eh?”
“No, not yet.”