Look out, sah--dat shell's still a-sizzlin'.

Mo' coffee, sah?
Wait till I gits some hot waffles--won't take a minute!" and he was out of the room and downstairs before his master could answer.
Hardly had he slammed the kitchen door behind him when the clatter and stamp of a horse's hoofs were heard Outside, followed by an impatient rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker.
The boy dropped his dishes: "Fo' Gawd, dat's Mister Harry!" he cried as he started on a run for the door.

"Don't nobody bang de do' down like dat but him." A slender, thoroughly graceful young fellow of twenty-one or two, booted and spurred, his dark eyes flashing, his face tingling with the sting of the early morning air, dashed past the obsequious darky and burst into Temple's presence with the rush of a north-west breeze.

He had ridden ten miles since he vaulted into the saddle, had never drawn rein uphill or down, and neither he nor the thoroughbred pawing the mud outside had turned a hair.
"Hello, Uncle George!" Temple, as has been said, was Uncle George to every girl and youth in Kennedy Square.
"Why, Harry!" He had sprung from his seat, napkin in hand and had him by both shoulders, looking into his eyes as if he wanted to hug him, and would the first thing he knew.

"Where are you from--Moorlands?
What a rollicking chap you are, and you look so well and handsome, you dog! And now tell me of your dear mother and your father.