"_Genus_ cockney; _species_, bagman," muttered John Effingham, as the
first arrival touched the deck. "That worthy has merely exchanged the
basket of a coach for the deck of a packet; we may now learn the price
of buttons."

It did not require a naturalist to detect the species of the stranger, in
truth; though John Effingham had been a little more minute in his
description than was warranted by the fact. The person in question was one
of those mercantile agents that England scatters so profusely over the
world, some of whom have all the most sterling qualities of their nation,
though a majority, perhaps, are a little disposed to mistake the value of
other people as well as their own. This was the _genus_, as John Effingham
had expressed it; but the _species_ will best appear on dissection. The
master of the ship saluted this person cordially, and as an old
acquaintance, by the name of Monday.

"A _mousquetaire_ resuscitated," said Mademoiselle Viefville, in her
broken English, as one who had come in the same boat as the first-named,
thrust his whiskered and mustachoed visage above the rail of the gangway.

"More probably a barber, who has converted his own head into a wig-block,"
growled John Effingham.

"It cannot, surely, be Wellington in disguise!" added Mr. Effingham, with
a sarcasm of manner that was quite unusual for him.

"Or a peer of the realm in his robes!" whispered Eve, who was much amused
with the elaborate toilet of the subject of their remarks, who descended
the ladder supported by a sailor, and, after speaking to the master, was