CHAPTER XII.
EMILE TOURON.
The carriage which was approaching came slowly, although the driver, a negro boy, continually belabored his horse with a short whip, endeavoring, besides, by a vigorous clicking and jerking of the reins, to make him go faster; but the horse had evidently made up his mind that in regard to this sort of thing a line must be drawn somewhere, and he drew it at a slow trot, as being the fastest pace that should be expected of his old bones and stiff muscles.
“Who in the world can be coming here?” cried Phil, jumping up from his seat. “It can’t be uncle!”
But the moment the boys got a good look at the carriage, they perceived that the individual on the back seat was not Mr. Godfrey Berkeley. It was a young person, apparently a boy.
When the carriage reached the front of the house, Phil went down the steps to receive the visitor.
This person was already working at the crooked handle of the carriage door, and, having at last succeeded in turning it, he quickly got out.
He was a well-dressed young fellow, scarcely as tall as Phil, but apparently two or three years older. He had dark hair and eyes, and a very small moustache, which, though not noticeable at a distance, was quite distinct when one stood near and looked him full in the face. This young person stepped up quickly to Phil and held out his hand.
“Is this my Cousin Phileep?” he asked, with a smile.
“I am Philip Berkeley,” said our friend, taking the hand of his visitor, and looking very much bewildered.