“Mr. Judd wishes to take your hand,” said the General, then adding, by way of explanation, “He never shook hands before. But these customs he will soon acquire.” The small hand was laid in the large one and moved up and down after the manner of the country.
“Don’t they shake hands in India?” asked Mr. Judd, as if it were something of a joke. “How do you let another man know you’re glad to see him?”
“Oh, yes, we shake hands sometimes. The English taught us that. But it is not usual with persons of his rank. It will be easily learned, however.”
After a word or two more they took their seats in the wagon, the boy at his own request getting in front with the driver. They soon came in sight of the Judd residence, a large, white, square, New England farmhouse of the best type, standing on rising ground several hundred feet from the road, at the end of a long avenue of maples. Clustered about it were some magnificent elms. As they entered the avenue the driver, whose curiosity could be restrained no longer, turned and said to the boy:
“Did you ever see Mr. Judd before?”
“No.”
“Then how did you know ’twas him?”
“By his face.”
He looked down with a sharp glance, but the boy’s expression was serious, even melancholy.
“Ever been in this town before?”