"He's a comin', boys, whooep!" exclaimed Jimmy Phoebus. "Now we'll
all take off our hats an' do it polite, for, by smoke! thar's goin' to
be hokey-pokey of some kind or nuther in Prencess Anne!"
The smallish man in the Guy Fawkes hat and the old, ultra-genteel,
greenish gaiters, walked towards them with his resinous bold eyes to the
front, his nose informing him of what was in the air like any silken
terrier's, and yet with a pallor of the skin as of a sick person's, and
less than his daily expression of hostility to Princess Anne.
"He's got the ager," remarked Levin Dennis, "them's the shakes, comin'
on him by to-morrey, ef I know tarrapin bubbles!"
The latter end only of the nearest approach to profanity current in that
land was again heard, fluttering around: "to _save_ my life!"
Jimmy Phoebus had the name of being descended from a Greek pirate, or
patriot, who had settled on the Eastern Shore, and Phoebus looked it
yet, with his rich brown complexion, broad head, and Mediterranean eyes.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Milburn!" spoke Jimmy, loud and careless.
"Good-afternoon, Mr. Phoebus. Gentlemen, good-afternoon!"
As he responded, with a voice hardly genial but placating, Milburn
lifted his ancient and formidable hat, and in an instant seemed to come
a century nearer to his neighbors. His stature was reduced, his
unsociableness seemed modified; he now looked to be a smallish,
friendless person, as if some ownerless dog had darted through the
street, and heard a kind chirp at the tavern door, where his reception
had been stones.
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