Kennedy Square. Francis Hopkinson Smith

eyes on the turn in the street, and had otherwise conducted himself as would any other boy, black or white, who was at his wits' end to know what to do with the next second of his time.

      Aunt Jemima had listened to the racket until she had lost all patience, and at last threw up the basement window:

      “Go in an' shet dat do'—'fo' I come up dar an' smack ye—'nough ter make a body deef ter hear ye,” she called, her black shining face dividing the curtains. “How you know he's a-comin'?”

      Todd leaned over the railing and peered down: “Mister Harry Rutter done tol' me—said dey all 's a-comin'—de jedge an' Doctor Teackle an' Marse George an' de hull kit an' bilin'. Dey's been gone mos' two weeks now—dey's a-comin' I tell ye—be yere any minute.”

      “I b'liebe dat when I sees it. Fool nigger like you b'liebe anything. You better go inside 'fo' you catch yo' dea'f. I gin ye fair warnin' right now dat I ain't gwineter nuss ye—d'ye yere?—standin' out dar like a tarr-pin wid yo' haid out. Go in I tell ye!” and she shut the window with a bang and made her way to the kitchen.

      Todd kept up his double shuffle with everything going—hands, feet, and knees—thrashed his arms about his chest and back to keep up the circulation and with a final grimace in the direction of the old cook maintained his watch.

      “I spec's it's de fog dat's kep' 'em,” he muttered anxiously, his feet still in action. “Dat bay boat's mos' allus late—can't tell when she'll git in. 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. You go back to your kitchen and hurry up breakfast—waffles, remember—and some corn pone and a scallop shell or two—I'm as hungry as a bear.”

      The whole party were mounting the steps now, St. George carrying the guns, Todd loaded down with the game—ten brace of canvas-backs and redheads strung together by their bills—the driver of the gig following with the master's big ducking overcoat and smaller traps—the four dogs crowding up trying to nose past for a dash into the wide hall as soon as Todd opened the door.

      “Anybody been here lately, Todd?” his master asked, stopping for a moment to get a better grip of his heaviest duck gun.

      “Ain't nobody been yere partic'ler 'cept Mister Harry Rutter. Dey alls knowed you was away. Been yere mos' ev'ry day—come ag'in yisterday.”

      “Mr. Rutter been here!—Well, what did he want?”

      “Dunno, sah—didn't say. Seemed consid'ble shook up when he foun' you warn't to home. I done tol' him you might be back to-day an' den ag'in you mightn't—'pended on de way de ducks was flyin'. Spec' he'll be roun' ag'in purty soon—seemed ter hab sumpin' on his min'. I'll tu'n de knob, sah. Yere—git down, you imp o' darkness—you Floe!—you Dandy! Drat dem dogs!—Yere, YERE!” but all four dogs were inside now, making a sweepstakes of the living-room, the rugs and cushions flying in every direction.

      Although Todd had spent most of the minutes since daylight peering up and down the Square, eager for the first sight of the man whom he loved with an idolatry only to be found in the negro for a white man whom he respects, and who is kind to him, he had not neglected any of his other duties. There was a roaring wood fire behind brass andirons and fender. There was a breakfast table set for two—St. George's invariable custom. “Somebody might drop in, you know, Todd.” There was a big easy-chair moved up within warming distance of the cheery blaze; there were pipes and tobacco within reach of the master's hand; there was the weekly newspaper folded neatly on the mantel, and a tray holding an old-fashioned squat decanter and the necessary glasses—in fact, all the comforts possible and necessary for a man who having at twenty-five given up all hope of wedded life, found himself at fifty becoming accustomed to its loss.

      St. George seized the nearest dog by the collar, cuffed him into obedience as an example to the others, ordered the four to the hearth rug, ran his eye along the mantel to see what letters had arrived in his absence, and disappeared into his bedroom. From thence he emerged half an hour later attired in the costume of the day—a jaunty brown velveteen jacket, loose red scarf, speckled white waistcoat—single-breasted and of his own pattern and cut—dove-gray trousers, and white gaiters. No town clothes for St. George as long as his measure was in London and his friends were good enough to bring him a trunk full every year or two. “Well-cut garments may not make a gentleman,” he would often say to the youngsters about him, “but slip-shod clothes can spoil one.”

      He had drawn up to the table now, Todd in white jacket hovering about him, bringing relays of waffles, hot coffee, and more particularly the first of a series of great scallop-shells filled with oysters which he had placed on the well-brushed hearth to keep hot while his master was dressing.

      Fifty he was by the almanac, and by the old family Bible as well, and yet he did not look it. Six feet and an inch; straight, ruddy-checked, broad-shouldered, well-rounded, but with his waist measure still under control; slightly gray at the temples, with clean-shaven face, laughing eyes, white teeth, and finely moulded nose, brow, and chin, he was everything his friends claimed—the perfect embodiment of all that was best in his class and station, and of all that his blood had bequeathed him.

      And fine old fellows they were if we can believe the historians of the seventeenth century: “Wearing the falchion and the rapier, the cloth coat lined with plush and embroidered belt, the gold hat-band and the feathers, silk stockings and garters, besides signet rings and other jewels; wainscoting the walls of their principal rooms in black oak and loading their sideboards with a deal of rich and massive silver plate upon which was carved the arms of their ancestors;—drinking, too, strong punch and sack from 'silver sack-cups'—(sack being their favorite)—and feasting upon oysters and the most delicious of all the ducks of the world.”

      And in none of their other distinguishing qualities was their descendant lacking. In the very lift of his head and brace of his shoulders; in the grace and ease with which he crossed the room, one could see at a glance something of the dash and often the repose of the cavalier from whom he had sprung. And the sympathy, kindness, and courtesy of the man that showed in every glance of his eye and every movement of his body—despite his occasional explosive temper—a sympathy that drifted in to an ungovernable impulse to divide everything he owned into two parts, and his own half