In my eagerness, however, and notwithstanding the political acuteness of
my manoeuvre, I got myself into an awful dilemma. Having received the
bag, and his message, I walked off, but had scarcely descended a dozen
stairs when he recalled me.

"Where the devil are you going?" cried he.

"To your house, sir," I innocently replied.

"What, do you know it, then?" demanded he in surprise.

Here was a position. It was a miracle that I did not roll over the
carpet-bag and break my neck, in the confusion of ideas engendered by
this simple query.

I could not lie, and evasion was not my forte. A man or boy in the wrong
can never express himself with propriety; an opinion in which Quinctilian
also appears to coincide, when he asserts--

"Orator perfectus nisi vir bonus esse non potest."

I therefore summoned up sufficient breath and courage to answer him in
the affirmative.

"And when, pray, were you there?" said he.

"Yesterday, sir, your nephew asked me to come and see him."

"The impudent little blackguard?" cried he.