“In fact, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson concluded as he came to the last passage he had underlined, “language fails me, as, sir, it has failed me from the first, to say in precisely what manner your consummate achievement has addressed my critical sense.”
With this striking peroration, Mr. M. A. Dodson made as if to withdraw, but suddenly he appeared to think better of his resolution, for he returned again to the near proximity of his great and good master, and said in a modest voice, from which all traces of his infinitely creditable mental excitement had been removed, “If I dare, sir, I would ask of the author one small boon. I feel, sir, I have no right to ask it, but if it were granted to me, it would mean the overflowing of the cup. I should cherish beyond expression, sir, and I think I can vouch for it, that in after life my children also will do the same; I should cherish beyond expression, sir, the autograph of one who is at once the author of this great book, and who is at the same time the head of this great house.”
Immediately Mr. Octavius Crumpett dipped his pen in the ink and inscribed upon the first page of the volume, Mr. Matthew Arnold Dodson, with the Author’s good wishes.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, after handing back the volume to that gentleman, and curtailing in some measure a gratitude that already had been choicely expressed; “Mr. Dodson, when you go down-stairs, I shall be obliged if you will have the goodness to ask Mr. Walkinshaw to have the kindness to come and see me.”
As Mr. M. A. Dodson pursued his meritorious way towards the basement of the famous building, he took occasion to knock at the door of the adjoining room.
“Enter,” said a clear official tone.
“Mr. Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with a formidable politeness as he entered, and laying an unmistakable stress upon the prefix, “I have the honour to inform you that your goose is already cooked. Perhaps you will have the condescension to look at this.”
With immemorial calm Mr. M. Arnold Dodson disclosed for the edification of Mr. G. Eliot Davis, the fly-leaf of the volume he carried. A short exclamation of surprise and incredulity escaped the lips of that young gentleman, which Mr. Dodson did not pause to elucidate.
As the thin, tall, melancholy but intellectual form of Mr. Walter Pater Walkinshaw wended its way up-stairs, Mr. Dodson turned to William Jordan, Junior, with a Napoleonic air.
“Luney,” he said, “you can fetch me the time-book.”