Only las' week--Golly!--dar he is--DAT'S HIM!" A mud-bespattered gig was swinging around the corner into the Square, and with a swerve in its course was heading to where Todd stood.
The boy sprang down the steps: "Yere he is, Aunt Jemima!" he shouted, as if the old cook could have heard him through three brick walls.
The gig came to a stand-still and began to unload: first the dogs, who had been stowed under their master's feet since they left the steamboat wharf, and who with a clear bound to the sidewalk began scouring in mad circles, one after another, up and down Todd's immaculate steps, the four in full cry until the entire neighborhood was aroused, the late sleepers turning over with the remark--"Temple's at home," and the early risers sticking their heads out of the windows to count the ducks as they were passed out.

Next the master: One shapely leg encased in an English-made ducking boot, then its mate, until the whole of his handsome, well-knit, perfectly healthy and perfectly delightful body was clear of the cramped conveyance.
"Hello, Todd!" he burst out, his face aglow with his drive from the boat-landing--"glad to see you! Here, take hold of these guns---easy now, they won't hurt you; one at a time, you lunkhead! And now pull those ducks from under the seat.

How's Aunt Jemima ?--Oh, is that you aunty ?" She had come on the run as soon as she heard the dogs.
"Everything all right, aunty--howdy--" and he shook her hand heartily.
The old woman had made a feint to pull her sleeves down over her plump black arms and then, begrudging the delay, had grasped his outstretched hand, her face in a broad grin.
"Yes, sah, dat's me.

Clar' to goodness, Marse George, I's glad ter git ye home.

Lawd-a-massy, see dem ducks! Purty fat, ain't dey, sah?
My!--dat pair's jes' a-bustin'! G'long you fool nigger an' let me hab 'em! G'way f'om dere I tell ye!" "No,--you pick them up, Todd--they're too heavy for you, aunty.