"The—the boy isn't back yet, Mr. Titus," said one of the clerks, involuntarily pounding the call-bell in his nervousness.
"Lazy, shiftless niggers, the whole tribe of them," was Mr. Titus's caustic comment.
At that instant the boy, quite out of breath, came thumping down the stairs.
"Mr. Scott's got rheumatiz, Mr. Titus. He begs to be excused—"
"Buncombe!" snapped Mr. Titus. "He's afraid to play me. Well, this means no game for me. A beautiful day like this and—"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Titus," said I, stepping forward. "If you don't mind taking on a stranger, I will be happy to go around with you. My name is Smart. I think you must have heard of me through the Countess and your—"
"Great Scott! Smart? Are—are you the author, James Byron Smart? The—the man who—" He checked himself suddenly, but seized me by the hand and, as he wrung it vigorously, dragged me out of hearing of the men behind the desk.
"I am John Bellamy Smart," said I, a little miffed.
His shrewd, hard old face underwent a marvellous change. The crustiness left it as if by magic. His countenance radiated joy.
"I owe you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Smart, that can never be lifted. My daughter has told me everything. You must have put up with a fearful lot of nonsense during the weeks she was with you. I know her well. She's spoiled and she's got a temper, although, upon my soul, she seems different nowadays. There is a change in her, by George."