“It’s past eleven,” said Charley, glancing at the clock.
“Is it possible!”
“And then the mail doesn’t leave till day after to-morrow.”
“Oh!” ejaculated our impulsive ancestor, “I had not thought of that!”
CHAPTER XIX.
Ten days or so have passed.
“Well, Dick,” said Mr. Whacker, “I suppose we have seen our breakfast?”
Dick gave his company-bow, glancing, as the gentlemen rose from the table, with the imposing look of a generalissimo, at a half-grown boy who acted as his aide-de-camp whenever there was even one guest at Elmington. It was only, in fact, when our small family was alone that this worthy served as what would be called, in the language of our day, a “practical” waiter (there existing, it would seem, at the period of this writing, to judge from the frequency of that adjective upon sign-boards, hordes of theoretical blacksmiths, cobblers, and barbers, against whom the public are thus tacitly warned). For, whenever we had company, Dick would perform the duties rather of a commander than of a private,—magis imperatoris quam militis,—summoning to his assistance one or more lads who were too young for steady farm work,—or were so considered, at least, during those times of slavery. Zip,—for under this name went, in defiance of all the philology and all the Grimm’s Laws in the world, the boy in question,—(he had been christened Moses,)—Zip sprang nimbly forward under that austere glance of authority and began to clear the table,—half trembling under the severe eye of a chief for whom there was one way of gathering up knives, one method of piling plate upon plate, one of removing napkins,—one and only one.
“Dick,” said my grandfather, as soon as pipes were lit, “there is a fire in the library?”
“Yes, sir; I made one de fust thing dis morning.”