“I must haste!” said I.
“An you must haste, Dannie,” said he, “run on. I’ll not make haste, for I’m ’lowin’ that a little spell o’ thinkin’ about mother will sort o’ do me good.”
I ran on, fast as my legs would carry me (which was not very fast). ’Twas the departing whistle; the mail-boat had come and gone––I saw her lights, shining warmly in the dark, grow small as she fared out through the narrows to the sea. It began to rain in great drops; overhead ’twas all black––roundabout a world of looming shadows, having lights, like stars, where the cottages were set on the hills. I made haste on my way; and as I pattered on over the uneven road to the neck of land by the Lost Soul, I blamed myself right heartily, regretting my uncle’s disappointment, in that the expected guest would already have arrived, landed by way of my uncle’s punt. And, indeed, the man was there, as I learned: for my uncle met me on the gravelled path of our garden, to bid me, but not with ill-temper, begone up-stairs and into clean linen and fitting garments, which were laid out and waiting (he said) on my bed. And when, descending in clean and proper array, bejewelled to suit the occasion, by my uncle’s command, I came to the best room, I found there a young man in black, scarce older, it seemed, than myself.
“This here young man, Dannie,” says my uncle, with a flourish, “is your tutor.”
I bowed.
“Imported direck,” adds my uncle, “from Lon’on.”
My tooter? It sounded musical: I wondered what the young man blew––but shook hands, in the Chesterfieldian manner (as best I had mastered it), and expressed myself (in such Chesterfieldian language as I could recall in that emergency) as being delighted to form an acquaintance so distinguished.