“Just hark to de noise!” she murmured, starting a little at the silver lightning behind the palms.
“Just hark,” he repeated, troubled.
Rig a jig jig, rig a jig jig....
V
Little jingley trot-trot-trot, over the Savannah, hey—!
Joggling along towards Cuna-Cuna the creaking caravan shaped its course. Seated in a hooded chariot, berced by mule-bells, and nibbling a shoot of ripe cane, Mrs. Mouth appeared to have attained the heights of bliss. Disregarding, or insensitive to her husband’s incessant groans, (wedged in between a case of pineapples, and a box marked “lingerie”), she abandoned herself voluptuously to her thoughts. It was droll to contemplate meeting an old acquaintance, Nini Snagg, who had gone to reside in Cuna-Cuna long ago: “Fancy seein’ you!” she would say, and how they both would laugh.
Replying tersely to the innumerable “what would you do ifs” of her sister, supposing attacks from masked-bandits or ferocious wild-animals, Miami moped.
All her whole heart yearned back behind her, and never had she loved Bamboo so much as now.