"Mr. Preston," said the landlord, "as you are about to leave my house, I should like to ask you a few questions, if you have no objections."
"Mr. Dibbits," replied Oscar, "how much do I owe you?"
"It isn't that, sir; I assure you it isn't that. You have paid your bills like a gentleman. But when a guest comes and goes in such a mysterious way——"
"There is nothing mysterious about me or my movements," interrupted Oscar. "You won't let a fellow mind his own business even if he wants to, will you? You must have heard—for it is all over town, and in everybody's mouth—that I came here to procure specimens of natural history for a museum in America. That much I am at liberty to tell anybody; but my private affairs I decline to talk about. If you want to learn anything more concerning me go to Mr. Donahue, Mr. Morgan, or Mr. McElroy; and, if you are intimate with them, perhaps they will satisfy your curiosity."
The landlord began to open his eyes when he heard this. Mr. Donahue was the magistrate, Mr. Morgan was the editor of the leading political paper in Durban, and Mr. McElroy was the delegate for the colony.
An Englishman has the greatest respect for big names, and a guest who could speak of these gentlemen as Oscar did was one that could not be treated with too much familiarity.
"I meant no offence, Mr. Preston," the landlord hastened to say; "but you will acknowledge——"
"Yes, I will have to acknowledge it, for everybody tells me so," replied Oscar. "Folks look sideways at me, and say, 'Are you not rather young for such business, Mr. Preston?' When I first met Mr. Donahue, and told him where I had been, and what I had done in the way of hunting in my own country, he looked the very picture of astonishment, and said my story was almost incredible. Perhaps he wouldn't have believed a word of it if I hadn't brought the proofs with me. I suppose I am young in years for such work; but what I have done, and still hope to do, will bear no comparison with what another American boy has done—and he didn't brag about it, either. He left his home in New England when he was only seventeen years old, went to the La Plata River, in South America, and walked from there to Valparaiso—a distance of more than a thousand miles—in the face of all sorts of dangers and difficulties. I suppose you never heard of that before?"
No; Mr. Dibbits couldn't say he had.