"That's a sign of death in the family, ain't it, Jabe?" whispered Miss
Vilda faintly.
"So they say," he answered cheerfully; "but if 't is, I can 'count for
it, bein' as how I fertilized the pond lilies with a mess o' four white
kittens this afternoon; and as Rags was with me when I done it, he may
know what he's bayin' 'bout,--if 't is Rags, 'n' it looks enough like
him to be him,--'n' it is him, by Jiminy, 'n' Timothy's sure to be
somewheres near. I'll get out 'n' look roun' a little."
"You set right still, Jabe, I'll get out myself, for if I find that boy
I've got something to say to him that nobody can say for me."
As Jabe drew the wagon up beside the fence, Rags bounded out to meet
them. He knew Maria, bless your soul, the minute he clapped his eyes on
her, and as he approached Miss Vilda's congress boot his quivering
whiskers seemed to say, "Now, where have I smelled that boot before? If
I mistake not, it has been applied to me more than once. Ha! I have it!
Miss Vilda Cummins of the White Farm, owner of the white cat and
hash-pan, and companion of the lady with the firm hand, who wields the
broom!" whereupon he leaped up on Miss Cummins's black alpaca skirts,
and made for her flannel garters in a way that she particularly
disliked.
"Now," said she, "if he's anything like the dogs you hear tell of, he'll
take us right to Timothy."
"Wall, I don' know," said Jabe cautiously; "there's so many kinds o'
dorg in him you can't hardly tell what he will do.
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