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'Whose fun'ral ar-re ye goin' to at this hour? 'None but thim I makes mesilf, says he. 'What d'ye mean? says th' ol' man. 'I'm goin' over f'r to stand guard in th' thracks, says th' la-ad. Well, with that th' ol' man leaps up. 'Polisman, he says. 'Polisman, he says. 'Copper, he says. 'Twas on'y be Mrs.
Tarowline Tretherick." "Whose child ARE you?" demanded Mrs. Tretherick still more coldly, to keep down a rising fear. "Why, yours," said the little creature with a laugh. "I'm your little durl. You're my mamma, my new mamma. Don't you know my ol' mamma's dorn away, never to turn back any more? I don't live wid my ol' mamma now. I live wid you and Papa." "How long have you been here?" asked Mrs.
After a time he turned to the youth. "Where yeh hit, ol' boy?" he asked in a brotherly tone. The youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its full import was not borne in upon him. "What?" he asked. "Where yeh hit?" repeated the tattered man. "Why," began the youth, "I I that is why I " He turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd.
George was quite honest, and so, for that matter, was Todd: the Brown Sherry had also seen its day. "Yes, sah but how would dat fine ol' peach brandy de jedge gin ye do? It's sp'ilin' to be tasted, sah." Both eyes were now in eclipse in the effort to apprise his master that with the exception of some badly corked Madeira, Tom Coston's peach brandy was about the only beverage left in the cellar.
"Ol' John Barleycorn will leave to-night, an' to-morrow the 'Colonel' will be the soberest critter in Illinois kind o' lonesome like an' blubberin' to himself," she explained. The faithful soul added in a whisper of confidence: "He's a good man. There don't nobody know how deep an' kind o' coralapus like he is." She now paused as if to count stitches.
I come along, an' I find ol' Snakes-in-his-Gaiters livin' quite an' dacint in a new frame house.
She an' ol' Billy an' the hosses done took theyselves off this mawnin' jes' 'bout five minutes after my white folks lef." "Didn't she say where she was going?" asked Mr. Bucknor. "She never said 'peep turkey! ter man or beast.
Spackles. "I swanny!" said Old Man Bogle. "What d'you figger Scattergood wanted of that ol' coot?" demanded Old Man Peterson. "Somethin' deep," hazarded Old Man Bogle. "I always did hold Spackles was a brainy cuss. Hain't he 'most as good a checker player as I be? What gits me, though, is how Scattergood come to pick him instid of me."
"Bully fer you, ol' pot!" exclaimed Billy, and Pesita smiled delightedly in the belief that some complimentary title had been applied to him in the language of "Granavenoo." "I'll go an' tell 'em," said Billy. "Yes," said Pesita, "and say to them that they will start early in the morning."
Curious faces appeared in doorways, and whispered comments passed to and fro. "Ol' Johnson's raisin' hell agin." Jimmie stood until the noises ceased and the other inhabitants of the tenement had all yawned and shut their doors. Then he crawled upstairs with the caution of an invader of a panther den. Sounds of labored breathing came through the broken door-panels.
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