In the first place he came from America, and he lost no time in informing his listeners that an American gentleman was the only perfect specimen of humanity to be found upon the face of the globe. In the second place he was a millionaire, and had no bashfulness about advertising the fact. Finally, he enjoyed use of the name Josiah P. Jenkins, and his business premises, or at least some of them, were situated in Philadelphia, which, he explained, was the city of brotherly love, where Irish toasted English, whites embraced negroes, Jews dined with Christians, and sharp practice was unknown.
By this time the poor little actress, driving in solitary state towards Black Anchor, was almost forgotten. Actresses had occurred before, unhappily, but this was the first occasion during the entire history of the universe upon which a millionaire had walked and talked in Highfield. Mr. Jenkins was bestowing a new tradition upon the village; he was quite the equal of Queen Elizabeth, who had slept, and very much superior to King Charles, who had hidden, somewhere in the neighbourhood. Here was an individual who reckoned the weekly wage, not by a few shillings, according to local custom, but by innumerable dollars every moment. The people gazed upon him with reverence, while children approached to touch him, and discover what metal he was made of, while some of the more intelligent made remarks concerning copper which the great man did not seem to understand. The Yellow Leaf admitted afterwards he was thankful he had lived to see it, although he would have respected millionaires far more had he never set eyes upon the corporeal presence of Mr. Jenkins. It was wonderful, he added, how quickly these Americans acquired a superficial knowledge of the English language.
"What might be your occupation, sir?" asked the Dumpy Philosopher.
"Railways, my friend, with patent medicines as a side-line," replied Mr. Jenkins.
"I hope you ain't come here to build none, nor make none," said the Yellow Leaf.
"I have come here in my private capacity as art lover, collector, connoisseur. I am awaiting the arrival of one of your leading citizens, Mr. Drake of Windward House."
"And here he be, bringing home the washing," cried Squinting Jack, as George at the moment appeared upon the road with a fantastic white bundle beneath each arm.
"Don't you believe his tale," whispered the Dumpy Philosopher to his friends, as the American started forward to meet George. "He'm going to make that railway across Dartmoor what'll ruin the whole lot of us—and Mr. Drake ha' been and brought 'en here."