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“Oh!!” Both stand up on their stamping feet. They rosh upstairs for bag. They rosh downstairs with it. I go to animal garage for hitch down Sarah.

Pretty soonly church-bell chime forth while Mrs. & Mr. Spiggott return backwards from there. They observe their weak-end gasts on porch.

“What—must you carry yourselves away before Monday?” require Mrs. Spiggott for sorrow voice.

“Your poor but neat home is no place for zoological buffalos!” stroggle Hon. Mr. Ax.

“And poisonous food might be expensive from high price of drugs for economical persons,” grubble Hon. Mrs. Ax.

“Who told you this & that?” narrate those Spiggotts shockly.

“Togo did!” say others.

“So thanks!” she say so for sweetness resembling flirtatious snakes. “Please continue your usefulness, Togo, by removing my happy company in time to catch the time-table.”

Soonly I arrive up to porch-step accompanied by Sarah, the horse. When those Weak-Enders and other baggage were loaded in, Hon. Mrs. Spiggott spoke furthermore.

“Togo,” she pronounce, “when 1.11 train arrives up, hitch Sarah to the depot and continue traveling by rail with my dearie friends who can doubtlessly afford to hire you among their expensive servants.”