Again Mr. Grey smiled at the droll dulness and droller simplicity of his servant.
A gleam of light came into James's dim eyes upon finding the description narrowed down to the selection of one of two characteristics, and he said, in a voice of solemn sagacity:
"The back of his coat is dirty, sir, as if he'd been leaning against a public-house wall."
"Or as if he had been carrying a sack of corn on his back?" demanded the master, laughing softly, and brushing imaginary cigar-ashes off the polished oak-table with his white curved little finger.
For a moment James stood on his heels in stupefied doubt and dismay at this close questioning. He was a man of action, not of thought. Had his master shouted, "Right wheel—quick march!" he would have gone out of the window, through the glass, without a murmur and without a thought of reproach; but to be thus interrogated on subtleties of appearance made him feel like a blindfold man, who is certain he is about to be attacked, but does not know where, by whom, or with what weapon. He resolved to risk all and escape.
"I think, sir, it was a public-house, for I smelt liquor."
"That is conclusive," said the master, laughing out at last. "That is all right, James. I am too lazy to go down to see him. Show him up here. Stop a moment, James. Let him come up in five minutes."
The servant left the room, and as he did so the master laughed still more loudly, and then chuckled softly to himself, muttering:
"He thought the man had been leaning against a public-house because he smelt of liquor! Ha, ha, ha! My quaint James, you will be the death of your master. You will, indeed."
When he had finished his laugh he dismissed the idea of James finally with a roguish shrug of his shoulders and wag of his head.