"'My dear sir,' screamed the sturdy St. Albans, springing to meet his visitor, 'I am delighted to welcome you to the United States!'
"Mr. R. Fennarf's heart sank down to his very boots.
"'You mean what there is left of your United States,' he yelled, like a very ruffian. 'You Yankees never did know how to speak the English language.' And he actually spat upon a file of the 'Daily Fife' hanging near him, and sneered pointedly at a lithograph of the editor over the fireplace.
"St. Albans grasped his hand convulsively.
"'Spoken like Carlyle, sir; spoken like Carlyle. Your English honesty is worthy your English heart of oak, my dear friend.'
"'Sir!' roared R. Fennarf, frantic to be kicked, and backing temptingly toward the gifted St. Albans all the time he talked; 'you and your paper be demn'd! What do youknow about Carlyle, bless my soul! Whoare you smiling at? Whatd'ye mean?'
"Here he knocked St. Albans down.
"'You shall hear from me—step into that next room—will write to you instantly,' panted the editor.
Half-crazed with his continued failures, the unhappy R. Fennarf walked abstractedly into the next room, half hoping his antagonist wanted an opportunity to put on a pair of extra-heavy boots.
In two minutes a boy put a note into his hand.