“I can manage him! They say in the office I 'm the only fellow that ever could manage him. There goes his bell,—that's for you; wait here, however, till I come back.”
Darner hurried away, but was back in a moment, and beckoned to Tony to follow him, which he did in a state of flurry and anxiety that a real peril would never have caused him.
Tony found himself standing in the Minister's presence, where he remained for full a couple of minutes before the great man lifted his head and ceased writing. “Sit down,” was the first salutation; and as he took a chair, he had time to remark the stern but handsome features of a large man, somewhat past the prime of life, and showing in the lines of his face traces of dissipation as well as of labor.
“Are you the son of Watty Butler?” asked he, as he wheeled his chair from the table and confronted Tony.
“My father's name was Walter, sir,” replied Tony, not altogether without resenting this tone of alluding to him.
“Walter! nothing of the kind; nobody ever called him anything but Watty, or Wat Tartar, in the regiment. Poor Watty! you are very like him,—not so large,—not so tall.” “The same height to a hair, sir.”
“Don't tell me; Watty was an inch and a half over you, and much broader in the chest. I think I ought to know; he has thrown me scores of times wrestling, and I suspect it would puzzle you to do it.” Tony's face flushed; he made no answer, but in his heart of hearts he 'd like to have had a trial.
Perhaps the great man expected some confirmation of his opinion, or perhaps he had his own doubts about its soundness; but, whatever the reason, his voice was more peevish as he said: “I have read your mother's note, but for the life of me I cannot see what it points to. What has become of your father's fortune? He had something, surely.”
“Yes, sir, he had a younger son's portion, but he risked it in a speculation—some mines in Canada—and lost it.”
“Ay, and dipped it too by extravagance! There's no need to tell me how he lived; there wasn't so wasteful a fellow in the regiment; he 'd have exactly what he pleased, and spend how he liked. And what has it come to? ay, that's what I ask,—what has it come to? His wife comes here with this petition—for it is a petition—asking—I 'll be shot if I know what she asks.”