“Oh, yes,” she said, “here is Mr. Osson that came ova with me, fatha; he's a relation of Mr. Landa's,” and she presented him to them all.
He shifted his valise to the left hand, and shook hands with each, asking, “What name?” and then fell motionless again.
“Well,” said her father, “I guess this is the end of this paht of the ceremony, and I'm goin' to see your baggage through the custom-house, Clementina; I've read about it, and I want to know how it's done. I want to see what you ah' tryin' to smuggle in.”
“I guess you won't find much,” she said. “But you'll want the keys, won't you?” She called to him, as he was stalking away.
“Well, I guess that would be a good idea. Want to help, Miss Hinkle?”
“I guess we might as well all help,” said Clementina, and Mr. Orson included himself in the invitation. He seemed unable to separate himself from them, though the passage of Clementina's baggage through the customs, and its delivery to an expressman for the hotel where the Hinkles said they were staying might well have severed the last tie between them.
“Ah' you going straight home, Mr. Osson?” she asked, to rescue him from the forgetfulness into which they were all letting him fall.
“I think I will remain over a day,” he answered. “I may go on to Boston before starting West.”
“Well, that's right,” said Clementina's father with the wish to approve everything native to him, and an instinctive sense of Clementina's wish to befriend the minister. “Betta come to oua hotel. We're all goin' to the same one.”
“I presume it is a good one?” Mr. Orson assented.