“I can put away my lantern,” he said to himself,—“I have found him.”
“May I have the boldness to ask your name, sir?” he asked aloud.
“Ze Baron Rudolph von Blitzenberg,” that nobleman replied. “Yours, sare—may I dare?”
“Francis Bunker, at your service, Baron.”
“You are noble?” queried the Baron a little anxiously, for his prejudices on this point were strong.
“According to your standard I believe I may say so. That’s to say, my family have borne arms for two hundred odd generations; twenty-five per cent of them have died of good living; and the most malicious have never accused us of brains. I myself may not be very typical, but I assure you it isn’t my ancestors’ fault.”
The latter part of this explanation entirely puzzled the Baron. The first statement, though eminently satisfactory, was also a little bewildering.
“Two hondred generations?” he asked, courteously. “Zat is a vary old family. All bore arms you say, Mistair Bonker?”
“All,” replied Mr Bunker, gravely. “The first few bore tails as well.”
“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the Baron. “You are a fonny man I pairceive, vat you call clown, yes?”