"Oh yes, he knows everything pretty nearly; but he may not like being disturbed now—he's writing, you know."
"Well, perhaps Victoria might be able to tell; she used to take care of children."
So Victoria is summoned from the kitchen. She is a tall majestic negress, who looks as if she had just stepped out of history. Her speech does not quite come up to her stately mien.
"Why, what's de matter wi' de chile?" she queries.
All of Ralph's reply is lost except "daykumboa."
"Well, come 'long wi' Victoria—she git you kumboa. What, ain't gwine to come? Oh laws! dat ain't bein' good bo'."
For Master Ralph has seated himself flatly on a footstool, and with his back against the wall, refuses in the dumbest of dumb-show to be entrapped into "gwine" anywhere.
Miss Helena suggests that they bring to him whatever they find that is at all likely to be "daykumboa."
So at the feet of his Royal Highness is laid such a queer collection of articles as never before appeared in that trim sitting-room: a Child's History of England, a bottle of mucilage, a pair of scissors, a coal shovel, a comb and brush, a bunch of flowers, a photograph album, a bottle of ink, and goodness knows what besides. Miss Helena ransacks her brains and her bureau, Miss Judith brings every portable in the room, and Victoria literally squanders the contents of her larder, but all to no purpose, and what is worse, his Highness, becoming alarmed at such unusual behavior, begins to moan "Ont daykumboa" in a way that draws tears to the eyes of his aunts.
"Judith," exclaims Miss Helena, "the case is getting desperate. We must send for Elijah, no matter if he does get angry.—Victoria, just go to the study, and tell the Professor that he must come here for a few minutes. Do you hear—must!"