"Seein' you alone, sir,--beg your pardon, sir,--but there's a person--"

"A person! what the devil do you mean? Speak English--no, damn it, I
mean don't," said Islington, snappishly.

"I sed a person, sir. Beg pardon--no offence--but not a gent, sir. In
the lib'ry."

A little amused even through the utter dissatisfaction with himself
and vague loneliness that had suddenly come upon him, Islington, as he
walked toward the lodge, asked, "Why isn't he a gent?

"No gent--beggin' your pardin, sir--'ud guy a man in sarvis, sir. Takes
me 'ands so, sir, as I sits in the rumble at the gate, and puts 'em
downd so, sir, and sez, 'Put 'em in your pocket, young man,--or is it
a road agint you expects to see, that you 'olds hup your 'ands, hand
crosses 'em like to that,' sez he. ''Old 'ard,' sez he, 'on the short
curves, or you'll bust your precious crust,' sez he. And hasks for you,
sir. This way, sir."

They entered the lodge. Islington hurried down the long Gothic hall, and
opened the library door.

In an arm-chair, in the centre of the room, a man sat apparently
contemplating a large, stiff, yellow hat with an enormous brim, that
was placed on the floor before him. His hands rested lightly between his
knees, but one foot was drawn up at the side of his chair in a peculiar
manner. In the first glance that Islington gave, the attitude in some
odd, irreconcilable way suggested a brake. In another moment he dashed
across the room, and, holding out both hands, cried, "Yuba Bill!"