“Yes, sah. Dat’s berry true, sah. But I finks as yo’ didn’ pay ’tention to w’at I were sayin’, sah. No, sah, I sho yo’ didn’ year wot I were sayin’.” “Well, what in the deuce were you saying?” demanded Hanson, provoked and impatient, yet amused. “I was a-sayin’, sah, as de youn’ mist’ess hab been to Washin’town, sah. Yas, sah, been, sah, not gone, but been, sah. Yas, sah; been to de city dis long time pas’.” “And has just got home?” quickly added Hanson. Pompous cocked up his head sideways, like some huge bird, and answered, dubiously, in a noncommittal manner: “Ef yo’ say so, sah, it aine no manners to conterdick yo’.” “Then, since the lady is at home, go around and let me in, and take my card to her,” said Hanson, producing a little slip of pasteboard from his breast pocket. “I darsen’t do it, sah. I darsen’t, ’deed. W’ich my o’ders is strict, sah.” “Your orders?” “Yas, sah. To ’quest yo’ to ’part peaceable, sah. Yas, sah.” “Ah!” exclaimed Hanson, flushing red to his forehead. “Are these your mistress’ orders?” “W’ich dey is, sah.” “Did she send me any message?” “W’ich she did not, sah,” replied Pompous with dignity, “but des to sen’ yo’ ’way. Sich is my o’ders, sah.” “Ah! But suppose I decline to go?” “No ge’man, sah, as is a ge’man, would ’cline to leabe a lady’s house w’en he is onwelcome an’ ’quested so fo’ to do.” “But if I have the right to stay and demand admittance?” “Dat yo’ can’t hab, sah. An’ ef so be yo’ ’fuses to leabe de place quiet an’ ’spec’ful, my o’ders is werry sewere. Yes, sah, dey is.” “And what may they be, pray?” “To loose Tige on yo’, sah,” solemnly replied the negro. “Tige? Who’s Tige?” “Her aine a ‘who’; her is a what.” “What is Tige, then?” demanded Hanson with a laugh. “Her is a doag, an’ de werry fiershisht an’ wishusest beas’ as ebber yo’ see, sah. A pu’ mung’el her is.” “A pure mongrel?” “Yas, sah; a werry pu’ mung’el.” “I do not think I ever heard of that peculiar breed of dogs.” “Likely not, sah. Dey is werry yare; werry yare, indeed. An’ dis Tige is one ob de yarest. Yas, sah, her is. Her’s got mastiff an’ bulldog an’ Wushun bloodhoun’ an’—an’—an’—less see, now,—some yudder sort ob sabbage b’ute wishuser nor all de res’. Yas, sah, I sho yo’. An’ all dat go to make Tige de mos’ tore down debbil as ebber libbed. She wouldn’ min’ killin’ a man mo’n she would killin’ ob a yat.” “And you have orders to loose dat brute on me?” “W’ich I has, sah.” “What a savage that sweet love of mine is!” muttered Hanson to himself. Then aloud he said: “I have the right to enter this house. Go around and open the door for me.” “Couldn’ do it, sah. No, not at no yate in dis yere worl’,” repeated Pompous, solemnly shaking his head.