"God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers,
"so it's you, is it?"

He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so
I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.

"Come on indoors," said he; "let's surprise them; Gabriel will be
delighted," and he set off at a trot, I after him. He was not a
grand runner. I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and
that he probably looks ten years older than he really is. His hair
is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.

When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I
found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room. There was a table
in the centre covered with bundles, books, and papers, on the summit
of which, precariously poised on the lid of a biscuit-tin, stood a
jug and some glasses; piles of books lay on the floor; in one corner
stood a stack of brooms, rakes, guns, fishing-rods, sticks, and
umbrellas; and a marvellous medley of coats and hats, baskets,
cords, etc., loaded a groaning row of pegs.

"Wait here," said the old man, tilting the only chair in such a way
that a Bible, a match-box, and a cocoa-tin filled with nails were
safely deposited on the floor. He then popped his head in at three
several doors that opened on to the apartment (it was intended, I
afterwards discovered, for the hall), and finally disappeared behind
one of them which led straight on to a flight of stairs. Suddenly I
heard a scuffling, a sound as of some one coming down head foremost,
and my friend appeared, book and forelock and all.