“Uppish, ain’t he?” said the fair-haired fellow, speaking to nobody in particular.
The boy turned over the pages of the newspaper. This was of a type he had never seen before. The pictures bewildered him. He turned them upside down to see if he could understand them better. He then concluded that his own mental and moral disorganization had become embodied, and the newspaper fluttered from his hands. The beating of his heart was choking him.
The emissary from high places entered again.
“The Chief will see Calverley Brown.”
The fair-haired fellow stood up and followed the emissary with a precise imitation of the gait and manner of his predecessor.
The emissary entered again and picked up the newspaper from the carpet. His chin was poised at a supercilious angle.
“When one has no use for Punch,” he said with a slowness that made each word valuable, “it is considered the thing to place it on the table, or to offer it to one’s friends.”
The boy’s pale cheeks grew vivid, for the almost exaggerated development of his courtesy enabled him to appreciate that this reproof was merited.
“I—I—I b-beg your p-p-pardon, sir,” he stammered painfully; “I—I—I——”
The wizened boy sauntered out without paying the slightest heed to these apologies. However, the next moment he had sauntered in again.