"Oh," said I, watching him, "am I to go forest-running to-day?"
"Mars' Varick gwine ride de boun's," he announced, cheerfully.
"Ride to hounds?" I repeated, astonished. "In May?"
"No, suh! Ride de boun's, suh."
"Oh, ride the boundaries?"
"Yaas, suh."
"Oh, very well. What time does he start?"
"'Bout noontide, suh."
The old man strove to straighten my short queue, but found it hopeless, so tied it close and dusted on the French powder.
"Curly head, curly head," he muttered to himself. "Dess lak yo' pap's!... an' Miss Dorry's. Law's sakes, dishyere hair wuf mo'n eight dollar."