While I turned over these rough copies, the door opened, and a large, red-faced, stern-looking man, in a suit of red-brown tweed, and with a heavy stick in his hand, entered; he closed the door leisurely after him, and I half thought that I saw him also turn the key in the lock. He advanced towards me with a deliberate step, and, in a voice measured as his gait, said,—
“I am Mr. Jopplyn, sir,—I am Mr. Christopher Jopplyn.”
“I am charmed to hear it, sir,” said I, in some confusion, for, without the vaguest conception of wherefore, I suspected lowering weather ahead.
“May I offer you a chair, Mr. Jopplyn? Won't you be seated? We are going to have a lovely day, I fancy,—a great change after yesterday.”
“Your name, sir,” said he, in the same solemnity as before,—“your name I apprehend to be Porringer?”
“Pottinger, if you permit me; Pottinger, not Porringer.”
“It shall be as you say, sir; I am indifferent what you call yourself.” He heaved something that sounded like a hoarse sigh, and proceeded: “I have come to settle a small account that stands between us. Is that document your writing?” As he said this, he drew, rather theatrically, from his breast-pocket the letter I had just written, and extended it towards me. “I ask, sir,—and I mean you to understand that I will suffer no prevarication,—is that document in your writing?”
I trembled all over as I took it, and for an instant I determined to disavow it; but in the same brief space I bethought me that my denial would be in vain. I then tried to look boldly, and brazen it out; I fancied to laugh it off as a mere pleasantry, and, failing in courage for each of these, I essayed, as a last resource, the argumentative and discussions! line, and said,—
“If you will favor me with an indulgent hearing for a few minutes, Mr. Jopplyn, I trust to explain to your complete satisfaction the circumstances of that epistle.”
“Take five, sir,—five,” said he, laying a ponderous silver watch on the table as he spoke, and pointing to the minute-hand.