"If we were going anywhere but to Dunning's," said my uncle, as we turned out of Greenwich street, "I should have no fear of being recognised by the servants; for no one here thinks of keeping a man six months. Dunning, however, is of the old school, and does not like new faces; so he will have no Irishman at his door, as is the case with two out of three of the houses at which one calls, now-a-days."
In another minute we were at the bottom of Mr. Dunning's "stoup"—what an infernal contrivance it is to get in and out at the door by, in a hotty-cold climate like ours!—but, there we were, and I observed that my uncle hesitated.
"Parlez au Suisse," said I; "ten to one he is fresh from some Bally-this, or Bally-that."
"No, no; it must be old Garry the nigger"—my uncle Ro was of the old school himself, and would say "nigger"—"Jack can never have parted with Garry."
"Garry" was the diminutive of Garret, a somewhat common Dutch christian name among us.
We rang, and the door opened—in about five minutes. Although the terms "aristocrat" and "aristocracy" are much in men's mouths in America just now, as well as those of "feudal" and the "middle ages," and this, too, as applied to modes of living as well as to leasehold tenures, there is but one porter in the whole country; and he belongs to the White House, at Washington. I am afraid even that personage, royal porter as he is, is often out of the way; and the reception he gives when he is there, is not of the most brilliant and princely character. When we had waited three minutes, my uncle Ro said—
"I am afraid Garry is taking a nap by the kitchen-fire; I'll try him again."
Uncle Ro did try again, and, two minutes later, the door opened.
"What is your pleasure?" demanded the Suisse, with a strong brogue.
My uncle started back as if he had met a sprite; but he asked if Mr. Dunning was at home.