"A chair!" panted Bill. "Now ease him down, if you please,—careful,—and I'll—recite the circumstances,"—puffing, but polite to the last.
Helpless and gasping, Fessenden's was unfastened, and slipped down the African's back upon a seat placed to receive him. He still clung to the umbrella, which he endeavored to keep spread over him, while he stared around with stupid amazement at the dim room and the array of black faces.
And now the excited urchin began to caper and sing:—
"'Went down to river, couldn't get across;
Jumped upon a nigger's back, thought it was a hoss!'
"Oh, crackie, Bill!"
"Father," said William, with wounded dignity,—for he was something of a gentleman in his way,—"I wish you'd discipline that child, or else give me permission to chuck him."
"Joseph!" said the father, with a stern shake of his big black head at the boy, "here's a stranger in the house! Walk straight, Joseph!"
Which solemn injunction Joseph obeyed in a highly offensive manner, by strutting off in imitation of William's dandified air.
By this time the aged negro in the corner had become fully roused to the consciousness of a guest in the house. He came forward with slow, shuffling step. He was almost blind. He was exceedingly deaf. He was withered and wrinkled in the last degree. His countenance was of the color of rust-eaten bronze. He was more than a hundred years old,—the father of the old woman, the grandfather of the middle-aged man, and the great-grandfather of William, Joseph, and the girls. He was muffled in rags, and wore a little cap on his head. This he removed with his left hand, exposing a little battered tea-kettle of a bald pate, as with smiling politeness he reached out the other trembling hand to shake that of the stranger.
"Welcome, Sah! Sarvant, Sah!"