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. “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.