Joseph Crosby Lincoln

The Portygee Joseph Crosby Lincoln

"[...] The holder of the lantern tucked the reins between the whip-socket and the dash and climbed out of the buggy. He was a little man, perhaps about forty-eight or fifty, with a smooth-shaven face wrinkled at the corners of the mouth and eyes. His voice was the most curious thing about him; it was high and piping, more like a woman's than a man's. Yet his words and manner were masculine enough, and he moved and spoke with a nervous, jerky quickness. He answered the question promptly. "Guess I be, guess I be," he said briskly. "Anyhow, I'm lookin' for a boy name of-name of-My soul to heavens, I've forgot it again, I do believe! What did you say your name was?" "Speranza. Albert Speranza." "Sartin, sartin! Sper-er-um-yes, yes. Knew it just as well as I did my own. Well, well, well! Ye-es, yes, yes. Get right aboard, Alfred. Let me take your satchel." He picked up the suitcase. The boy, his foot upon the buggy step, still hesitated. "Then you're-you're not my grandfather?" he faltered. "Eh? Who? Your grandfather? Me? He, he, he!" He chuckled shrilly. "No, no! No such luck. If I was Cap'n Lote Snow, I'd be some older'n I be now and a dum sight richer. Yes, yes. No, I'm Cap'n Lote's bookkeeper over at the lumber consarn. He's got a cold, and Olive-that's his wife-she said he shouldn't come out to-night. He said he should, and while they was Katy-didin' back and forth about it, Rachel-Mrs. Ellis-she's the hired housekeeper there-she telephoned me to harness up and come meet you up here to the depot. Er-er-little mite late, wan't I?"[...]."