On this particular morning, then, Todd had spent most of the time since daylight—­it was now eight o’clock—­in the effort to descry his master making his way along the street, either afoot or by some conveyance, his eyes dancing, his ears alert as a rabbit’s, his restless feet marking the limit of his eagerness.  In his impatience he had practised every step known to darkydom in single and double shuffle; had patted juba on one and both knees, keeping time with his heels to the rhythm; had slid down and climbed up the railings a dozen times, his 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.