A Romance of Billy-Goat Hill

								

had stirred up old ambitions in him. A new sprightliness was observable
in his gait, a briskness in his speech, which Aunt Caroline did not
hesitate to characterize as “taking on airs.”
The blood of a butler coursed through Uncle Jimpson's veins, a stately,
ebony butler who had been wont to stand at the Thornwood door during
the old days and hold a silver tray covered with boutonnieres, for the
arriving guests. Uncle Jimpson had inherited this tray along with an
ambition that was not above buttons. Year after year he had descended
with the descending Carsey fortunes, passing from the house to the
horses, then to the field, and finally becoming the man of all work, but
never relinquishing that dream of his youth, to stand in livery in the
halls of the rich, and exercise those talents with which Providence had
blessed him.
As he passed the compliments of the day with two farm hands, who were
loading a wagon near by, his eye fell upon a strange object that stood
in the door of the dining-room. It looked to Uncle Jimpson like pictures
he had seen of lions, only it was small and white and barked remarkably
like a dog.
“Dat sure am a curious lookin' animal,” he observed. “Hit must b'long to
a show.”
One of the farm hands laughed and pointed with his thumb to the
waiting-room. Uncle Jimpson tiptoed to the window and peered in. All
that he could see was the back of a very imposing lady and the top of a
large plumed hat.
“Is--is she a-waitin' fer anybody?” he whispered, motioning anxiously
with his soft hat.
“Oh! no,” said the nearest man; “she ain't waitin'; she's just enjoyin'
the scenery on them railroad posters. She likes to set there, been doin'
it for a half hour.”
Uncle Jimpson scraped the mud from his shoes, buttoned the one button
that was left on his linen coat, and dropping his hat outside the door
summoned courage to present himself.
“'Scuse me, mam, but does dis heah happen to be Mrs. Sequm?”
“It is,” said the lady, haughtily.
“Yas'm, dat's what I 'lowed. Dat's what I tole Carline--leastwise dat's
what I'st gwine tell her. Ise Cunnel Carsey's coachman.”
Mrs. Sequin eyed him coldly through a silver lorgnette. “Didn't they
understand that I was coming on the eleven train?”
“Yes'm, dat's right. But you allays has to 'low fer dem narrow gauges.
Dey has to run slow to keep from fallin' offen de track. Dat must have
been de ten o'clock train you come on.”
“Not at all, I left the city at ten minutes of eleven.”
“Yas'm, dat was de ten train den. De leben train don't start 'til long
about noon.”
“Preposterous!” said Mrs. Sequin, sweeping to her feet. “Take me to the
carriage. Fanchonette! Where are you?”
Uncle Jimpson apologetically dragged forward his left foot, upon the
trouser hem of which the small dog had fastened her sharp little teeth.
“Frightfully obstinate little beast,” said Mrs. Sequin, “she won't let