I knew then that James Henry McCarthy, crude as he was, had got a little ahead of me.
“You see, I'm working on my gentleman every day,” he went on, “I'll have him in decent shape by-an'-by. I read a good deal, because every gentleman reads, and I'm beginning to enjoy it.”
“I wish you'd make me a visit; I want you to meet my mother,” said I.
“I'd like to,” he answered. “You must come from a very respectable family.”
“What makes you think so?” I asked.
“Oh, I can tell by your looks and your way of talking,” he remarked. “You've been well brought up—a ready-made gentleman, as ye might say. It's grand to have all that done for ye. I wasn't so lucky. But I'm made upon honor—hand-sewed and stitched and double-soled. I ought to wear well. You could rely on me to behave myself if you took me into your home.”
Just then a colored boy came to the door and said: “There's a man down-stairs who wants to see Mr. McCarthy, and he won't give me a card.”
“Show the gentleman up,” said my friend, as if accustomed to many callers.
Presently in walked the Pearl of great price with the dog, Mr. Barker. I was overjoyed to see them.
“Let me feel of you,” he said, as he took my hand. “Now don't be scairt an' jump out o' the window. Just agree to stay with me for a minute. I'll agree not to kill you. I—I couldn't get even with you in that way.”