Uncle Dick, who very naturally (and correctly) supposed that this was another false alarm, threw his head into an attitude of pretended listening.
“Do you hear anything?” asked the old gentleman.
“Ain’t dem de horses a-stompin’ down at de stable?”
“I believe you are right,” sighed the old gentleman, as he turned to re-enter the dining-room.
“Marse Charley ain’t sont you no letter, is he?” asked Uncle Dick, advancing deferentially towards my grandfather, across the space that separated the kitchen from the “Great-House.”
“Why, no; but I thought he might come. He wrote me a week ago that the gentleman was getting well.”
“Adzackly!” replied Dick, scratching in the fringe of white wool that bordered his bald head. “Jess so! Does you think it rimprobable, mahster,” he began again after a moment of seeming reflection, “dat Marse Charley would come without he writ fust and ’pinted de day, and de ferry ’most twenty miles from here, and nothin’ to hire dere ’cep’n ’tis dat old flea-bitten gray, and he a-string-halted?”
“True enough.”
“Dat ain’t no fitten animil for de likes o’ Marse Charley, and he a-used to straddlin’ o’ de very best dat steps.”
“But listen, Dick! what’s that?”