“Gogo!” whispered Patty; “it’s Gogo!”
I could well believe it of such a monster.
He was a man, and a huge one, down to his mid-thighs; and there he ended in a couple of wooden stumps. His face, lapped in a very mask of red bristle, was as savage as sin; and he growled and rumbled like an interdicted volcano.
“Ay,” he thundered, “I’m Gogo, the Dutch tumbler. Who calls me by my name?”
Holding with one hand by the banisters, he struck with the strong stick he carried at the stairs, missed the tread, and was within an inch of falling. The stick rattled down, and he swung and clung with both hands to the rail. In an instant, some whimsical impulse sent me tripping lightly up to help him.
“Take my arm,” I said, “down to the landing.”
The giggling servants paused in their task to stare up; but the monster himself laboured round, with quite a stunned look.
“To help—me,” he whispered hoarsely; “the little scented rush to prop the oak!”
I was in love with his changed voice at once. It was something to meet only two-thirds of a man.
“No, no,” he said, touching my arm as if it were a relic. “I’m Gogo, the colour-grinder, the bottle-washer—not worthy to latch your ladyship’s little shoe. I’ll go down—I’ll go down. Ho-ho! it’s easy. I’ve done it all my life.”