The selection of the golden circlet that was to bind them in renewed wedded security was so momentous a question that the sun was slipping behind the hills before it was satisfactorily accomplished. At this juncture the absorbed bridal party recalled the fact that it must be nearly train time.
“We’ll des race ober t’ de grocery sto’ an’ grab up our bundles an’ scoot t’ de depo’—” urged Mr. Crabtree as he impelled his panting companion onward.
“Your bundles? Ah, yes; to be sure,” said the custodian of the “trosso;” “they’re all right. The colored man you sent after them carried them to the station some time ago.”
“De cullud man whot I sont atter em?” ejaculated Mr. Crabtree, with bulging eyes.
“Yes, he said you had been delayed, and would go straight to the train from the courthouse. Isn’t that all right?”
“Golly! I should say it wan’t all right!” cried the prospective groom, forgetting in the stress of the moment the dignity becoming the Master of the Lodge. “I ain’t never sont nobody atter dem bundles; I wouldn’ a trusted ’em wid de preacher hisse’f effen he’d a been a dark-complected genterman! What for looks was dat thievin’ nigger?”
The grocer’s face wore a look of puzzlement:
“Why, I couldn’t tell for my life. I didn’t notice him specially; I just supposed of course you sent him. Better go over to the station—maybe you’ll find your stuff there all right.”
But this cheerful prophecy failed of fulfillment, as no clue to the missing “trosso” or its mysterious purloiner could be gained.
“Dem Jingo mines closed down yistiddy, an’ dis heah town’s full o’ loafin’ thievin’ niggers—” Mr. Crabtree explained to his wife after two hours’ diligent search had failed to disclose any clue to thief or packages; “some ob ’em is hyerd us ’scussin’ our plans, an’ has followed us an’ swiped dat trosso.”