"You're right!" he exclaimed; "this is no time to nurse a grouch.
Perhaps they didn't get the telegram. I'll risk it. Is there a side
door you could slip me in?"
"Yas, sir! We got four side doors, 'sides de back one. Ain't nuffin we
ain't got. You git right in de wagon, an' I'll hist de bags in.
'Tain't de way I'd like to kerry you up to de mansion, straddlin' a
ice-cream freezer wid de snow in yer face, but I'll git you dere!"
Uncle Jimpson, sure of an audience for at least twenty minutes, forgot
his wrongs and laid himself out to make the most of his opportunity.
It was very cold and the horse's hoofs beat hard on the frozen ground.
Beyond the wavering circle of light from the swaying lantern all was
dark and mysterious.
"I certainly is glad dem freezers come," said Uncle Jimpson, tucking
in the lap robe; "I shore would hate to go back widout 'em. De Cunnel
used to say dat was what niggers was born fer, to git what you sent
'em after."
"Who is the Colonel?" asked the stranger with a quick glance of
recognition at the old negro.
"Cunnel Bob Carsey. My old marster. He's dead now, an' Mrs. Sequin
she's done borrowed me fer a while.
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