“Dick had ought to know, fo' he's an earl himself,” cried Polly exultantly, unable to restrain herself any longer, while a mutter came from the six little Cavendishes who had been wonderfully silent for them.
“Sho', Richard Keppel Cavendish, Earl of Lambeth! 'Sho', that was what he was! Sho'!” and some transient feeling of awe stamped itself upon their small faces as they viewed the long and limber figure of their parent.
“Is that mo' than a Colonel?” Yancy risked the question hesitatingly, but he felt that speech was expected from him.
“Yes,” said the possessor of the title.
“Would a General lay it over you any?”
“No, sir, he wouldn't.”
Yancy gazed respectfully but uncertainly at Chills and Fever.
“Then all I got to say is that I've traveled considerably, mostly between Scratch Hill and Balaam's Cross Roads, meeting with all kinds of folks; but I never seen an earl afo. I take it they are some scarce.”
“They are. I don't reckon there's another one but me in the whole United States.”
“Think of that!” gasped Yancy.