“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.