While he spoke, the odd creature had descended unaided, and, recovering his stick, struck his wooden limbs fiercely with it.
“Do you see?” he cried. “A stiff-kneed dog as ever limped after Fortune!”
He flounced upon the servants, and roared them into care of their charge; then turned again to me, where I stood with my friend, who had run trembling to my shelter.
“’Tis our market, ladies,” he said in apology. “I must be particular in its custody. We deal in new lamps for old; in”—
He descended a few steps, then turned again.
“Ah!” he groaned, tragic and comical in one. “Pity the poor genii who has to serve; pity him—pity him.”
He heaved a sigh that would have turned a windmill, and followed the picture, and disappeared.
“Patty!” I whispered, when he was gone—“Patty! Lord, Patty! who is the creature?”
“I’m terrified of him,” she gulped. “He’s Mr. de Crespigny’s dog, he calls himself, and follows his master everywhere, loving and growling at him. He used to say there was no such painter in the world, if he could be kept to it; but he always frightened me dreadfully. I do hope they won’t stop long.”
“H’m!” I said. “And is that queer name all he’s got?”