The language of vivid hyperbole being exhausted, Mrs. Lester and I expressed ourselves simply to the same effect. We turned, heedful no longer of the tides, and travelled delightfully along the Artichoke road until we reached a brown dwelling that I knew could be none other than theirs—Uncle Coffin's and Aunt Salomy's; they were in their sunny yard, and before I knew them, I loved them.
"Dodrabbit ye!" cried Uncle Coffin Demmin, springing out at us in hospitable ecstasy, Salomy beside him; "git out! git out quick! The sight on ye makes me sick, in there. Git out, I say!" he roared.
"No-o; guess not, Coffin," said Captain Pharo, with gloomy observance of formalities; "guess I ca-arnt; goin' up to the Point to git a nail put in my hoss's shu-u."
But Uncle Coffin was already leading the horse and carriage on to the barn floor.
"Dodrabbit ye!" he exclaimed, "git out, or I'll shute ye out."
At this invitation we began to descend with cheerful alacrity.
As the horse walked into an evidently familiar stall, Uncle Coffin seized Captain Pharo and whirled him about with admiring affection.
"Dodrabbit ye, Pharo!" he cried, struck with the new jacket; "ye've been to Boston!"
"I hain't; hain't been nigh her for forty year," said Captain Pharo, but he was unconscionably pleased.
"Dodrabbit ye, Pharo! ye've been a-junketin' around to Bar Harbor; that 's whar' ye been."