"Ah, Carvel," he repeated; "I know three or four of that name. Perhaps
you are Robert Carvel's son, of Yorkshire. But what the devil do you do
in such clothes? I was resolved to have you though I am forced to take a
dozen watchet-blue mountebanks in the bargain."

"Sir, I warn you not to insult my friend," I cried, in a temper again.

"There, there, not so loud, I beg you," said he, with a gesture. "Hot as
pounded pepper,--but all things are the better for a touch of it. I had
no intention of insulting the worthy man, I give my word. I must have my
joke, sir. No harm meant." And he nodded at John Paul, who looked as if
he would sink through the floor. "Robert Carvel is as testy as the devil
with the gout, and you are not unlike him in feature."

"He is no relation of mine," I replied, undecided whether to laugh or be
angry. And then I added, for I was very young, "I am an American, and
heir to Carvel Hall in Maryland."

"Lord, lord, I might have known," exclaimed he. "Once I had the honour
of dining with your Dr. Franklin, from Pennsylvania. He dresses for all
the world like you, only worse, and wears a hat I would not be caught
under at Bagnigge Wells, were I so imprudent as to go there."

"Dr. Franklin has weightier matters than hats to occupy him, sir," I
retorted. For I was determined to hold my own.

He made a French gesture, a shrug of his thin shoulders, which caused me
to suspect he was not always so good-natured.

"Dr. Franklin would better have stuck to his newspaper, my young friend,"