"Harper?" queried the mother of the pretty trio, with some surprise.
"Yes; Moss Harper."
The four ladies exchanged quick glances.
"Why, our carriage-driver, long before the War, was an old negro named Moss. He had a son named Benjy, who ran away during the War. I don't want to impeach the genealogy of your King, but I wonder—" She stopped, as if recalling that her auditor was a stranger, then added, with a smile: "Anyhow, we must be waited on by him, now."
Moss was aware that the ladies at his table were scanning him with more interest than even his size and legendary history usually evoked, and he was not much surprised, therefore, when the eldest of them said: "Excuse me, please, but is your real name Moss Harper?"
"Yassum," he answered, halting instantly in his employment, as old Benjy had taught him to do, and dumbly waiting the lady's further pleasure.
"Do you know your father's name?"
"Yassum. Ole Benjy."
"Is he still living?"