He assured her that Clossie was well, and then she said, “Mr. Bonstone, this is our friend of whom I was speaking the other day—Mr. Granton.”
The two men shook hands, and looked at each other with sizing-up glances, like two dogs that may fight and may not, just as the fancy strikes them.
Gringo went under the sofa with me, and Walter Scott lay by the fire.
My! what a gossip we had. “Ain’t master the curly-headed boy,” said Gringo admiringly. “Just up and leaves the Bowery, and comes in among the swells, as cool as a cucumber. Picks the downiest peach of the lot.”
“But, Gringo,” I said uneasily. “You’ll not be at home in these higher circles. You don’t understand.”
“Don’t understand,” he growled. “Don’t I understand? Can you spring at a bull’s head, hold him, and pin him down without sweating? That’s what my ancestors used to do. I’m thoroughbred—I am. But what they went through is nothing to what I’ve gone through with these upper-crust dogs. It’s enough to break your heart. At first I took their nonsense; then I got my ginger up and just squared up to them. I don’t see any use in their darned old politeness—forever scraping and bowing, and doing the pretty. Yah! it makes me sick.”
“How does your master get on?” I asked curiously.
“Never turns a hair outside, but he’s hot under the collar—wears four a day. This indoor life wilts him, and makes him sweat like a butcher.”