“Ah, well; Providence must guide me,” I said to myself at last. And in a way that I am sufficiently old-fashioned—superstitious—call it what you will—to think more than mere coincidence, Providence responded to my faith. I could scarcely guess that my friend, the old General, who came in to smoke a pipe with me, was an agent employed by Heaven, but so he proved.
“I want your advice,” I said. “What should I say, what should I do, under the following perplexing circumstances?”
And, without giving him any names, I told him the story of Dick.
“Difficult business, mossoo, delicate affair and that sort of thing,” he observed, when I had finished. “You say your friend is a pretty obstinate young fellow?”
“Dick Shafthead is obstinacy itself,” I replied, letting his name escape by a most fortunate slip of the tongue.
“Shafthead!” said the General. “By Jove! Any relation to Sir Philip Shafthead?”
“Since you know his name, and can be trusted not to repeat it, I may as well say you that Sir Philip is the stern father in question. Do you know him?”