like a cuckoo clock, dat’s what she did. Dem guys is swells, too, bet yer life, an’ der old ’un stacks dem sacks of dough down under his trotters like dey was common as dried apples. Been shoppin’ fer Chrismus, and de kid’s lost one of her new socks’ w’ot she was goin’ to hold up Santy wid. De bloomin’ little skeezicks! Wit’ her ‘Mer-ry , Chris-mus!’ W’ot d’ yer tink! Same as to say, “Hello, Jack, how goes it? and as swell as Fift’ Av’noo, and as easy as a blowout in Cincinnat.”
Whistling Dick folded the stocking carefully, and stuffed it into his pocket.
It was nearly two hours later when he came upon signs of habitation. The buildings of an extensive plantation were brought into view by a turn in the road. He easily selected the planter’s residence in a large square building with two wings, with numerous good-sized, well-lighted windows, and broad verandas running around its full extent. It was set upon a smooth lawn, which was faintly lit by the far-reaching rays of the lamps within. A noble grove surrounded it, and old-fashioned shrubbery grew thickly about the walks and fences. The quarters of the hands and the mill buildings were situated at a distance in the rear.
The road was now enclosed on each side by a fence, and presently, as Whistling Dick drew nearer the houses, he suddenly stopped and sniffed the air.
“If dere ain’t a hobo stew cookin’ somewhere in dis immediate precinct,” he said to himself, ‘‘me nose has quit tellin’ de trut’.”
Without hesitation he climbed the fence to windward.
