The summons was heeded by a young middle-aged gentleman who in years might have been five-and-twenty, but who in manner, demeanour and cultivated deference to all the things that were, foremost of whom was Mr. Tovey himself, was of no particular period of life.
“Mr. Toplady,” said Mr. Tovey, with a well-bred concealment of what his feelings had recently undergone, “I shall be grateful if you will ask Mr. Bessy to ask Mr. Fairservice to ask Mr. MacFayden to ask Perry to ask one of the porters to remove this parcel.”
Mr. Toplady bowed, thanked Mr. Tovey and withdrew delicately.
In a little while there came a knock on the door of Mr. Tovey’s domain, and in response to that gentleman’s invitation, a stalwart son of labour, six feet six inches high and broad in proportion, clad in a bright brown uniform with a liberal display of gold braid, entered the room, and removed the brown paper, the string, and also the manuscript in a remarkably efficient, solemn, and dignified manner.
A quarter of an hour after his feat had been performed with such admirable success, this same impressive gold-braided figure knocked again on Mr. Tovey’s door and entered his domain.
“Beg pardon, sir,” said the stalwart, “but what is us to do with that there parcel?”
Mr. Tovey looked up from his weekly perusal of the Journal of Literature, to which he was a constant and esteemed contributor.
“The parcel?” he said. “What parcel, Wordsworth? Oh, yes, I think I remember.” And then with a slightly humorous deprecation which had cost him two-thirds of a lifetime to acquire, “Suppose, Wordsworth, you light the fires with that parcel—and, Wordsworth, suppose you don’t make a noise when you close the door.”
LVI
At eight o’clock in the evening of the same day when Jimmy Dodson made his nightly pilgrimage to the little room, he was greeted eagerly by him who kept the chimney-side.