"Des keep on a-nappin' an' a-breavin' de f'esh air. Dass wha's go' mek
you good an' well agin."
Then there spoke the strangest voice that ever fell upon my ear; it was
not like a child's, neither was it like a very old person's voice; it
might have been a grasshopper's, it was so thin and little, and made of
such tiny wavers and quavers and creakings.
"I--want--" said this elfin voice, "I--want--Bill--Hammersley!"
The shabby phaeton which had passed my cousin's house was drawing up to
the curb near Beasley's gate. Evidently the old negro saw it.
"Hi dar!" he exclaimed. "Look at dat! Hain' Bill a comin' yonnah des
edzacly on de dot an' to de vey spot an' instink when you 'quiah fo'
'im, honey? Dar come Mist' Dave, right on de minute, an' you kin bet yo'
las hunnud dollahs he got dat Bill Hammersley wif 'im! Come along,
honey-chile! Ah's go' to pull you 'roun in de side yod fo' to meet 'em."
The small wagon creaked away, the chant resuming as it went.
Mr. Dowden jumped out of the phaeton with a wave of his hand to the
driver, Beasley himself, who clucked to the horse and drove through his
open carriage-gates and down the drive on the other side of the house,
where he was lost to my view.
Dowden, entering our own gate, nodded in a friendly fashion to me, and I
advanced to meet him.
"Some day I want to take you over next door," he said, cordially, as I
came up. "You ought to know Beasley, especially as I hear you're doing
some political reporting.
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