A minute later, a heavy, halting step was heard upon the stairs, and the visitor, none other than Canau’s landlord from Decadia, was ushered into the room.
Volume One—Chapter Twenty Four.
“D. Wragg, Nat’ralist.”
“Sarvant, gentlemen,” said the new-comer, who must now be fully introduced. He made four steps forward into the room, each step being accomplished by the planting of a heavy boot with a club-sole, some six inches thick, a couple of feet forward, when, with a bow and a jerk, the other leg was brought to the front, and the man stood upright, took another step, bowed, and again jerked himself into the perpendicular—each effort of locomotion being accompanied by an automaton flourish of one arm, similar to that of a farming man sowing turnips broadcast.
He was a wiry-looking little fellow, with sharp ferrety eyes, and short bristly hair standing up at the sides of his head, giving him the look of a fierce Scotch terrier—the resemblance being heightened by an occasional twitch of the facial muscles, which might have been taken for displays of annoyance at the workings of troublous insects beyond the reach of teeth or paws.
“Sarvant, gentlemen,” he said; “and if so be as it ain’t a liberty—”
He paused in his utterance, jerked himself back to the door, opened it, peered out as if seeking a rat—if not smelling one—closed the door again, jerked himself back, and laid one finger beside his very small nose, saying—
“I’ll make all snug afore I begin.”