But one evening, he came in looking very important, and he had a very, very old gentleman with him—a white-haired, apple-faced old fellow, all wrinkles, who looked like a picture I’ve seen somewhere of a very old man. The gentleman who painted it was a foreigner, I think. I know it was in an illustrated paper, and said, “An Old Man’s Head,” by some name I couldn’t pronounce, and I’m sure I couldn’t spell from memory.
When Mr. Wilkins brought him in he walked with a stick, being a bit bent and feeble; and Mr. Wilkins took his hand, and led him to the fire, and everybody made way for him.
“I’ve brought you a new customer, Mrs. Beckett,” said Mr. Wilkins, with a look which was as much as to say, “Here’s something for our ‘Memoirs.’”
I nodded to the new old gentleman, and said I hoped he was well, and what would he take.
He said he’d take a hot rum-and-water, and I had it brought, and he settled down comfortably in the arm-chair.
“Are you all right, Gaffer?” said Mr. Wilkins.
“Yes, thank’e,” said the old man, in a piping sort of voice. “I’m all right, Muster Wilkins. It’s the fust time I’ve been here for many a year, though; old place be altered surely.”
“My old friend is a very celebrated man, Mrs. Beckett,” said Mr. Wilkins. “He doesn’t live here now, but he’s come to stay with his daughter who does, and I’ve brought him out along with me this evening, and I’ve promised to see him safe home again, haven’t I, Gaffer?”
“Yes, you have, Muster Wilkins.”
“This is old Gaffer Gabbitas, ma’am, as you may have heard of. He was pretty well known about these parts once, weren’t you, Gaffer?”