"Request Mr. Harrison to step this way," he said firmly to the footman.
In about five minutes the groom of the chambers appeared within the precincts of the hall. Mr. Harrison was remarkably well grown, and of a certain age. His hair had left him in his youth, but he retained a very red complexion, a heavy manner, and a habit of throwing out his feet, like a horse, on either side of him as he went along, which he seldom did, since he was peculiarly addicted to repose. Apparently he had been disturbed while in the active enjoyment of this peculiarity, for he entered the presence with half-open eyes, a somewhat touzled and distressed whisker, and one side of his face an entirely different colour from the other. Where ordinary menials have their "day out," Mr. Harrison had his day in bed. This day was the Sabbath; and it must be confessed that he looked ill-pleased at the tour which he had been so unexpectedly obliged to take.
"Mr. Harrison," the Emperor said, casting on the groom of the chambers a searching glance, "I believe you are a man of the world."
"I am, sir," said Mr. Harrison, half allowing and half suppressing a yawn, a circumstance which made his countenance suddenly full of contradictory expressions.
"You can judge of a name at a first hearing, Mr. Harrison, I presume?" said the Emperor.
"Sir?" said Mr. Harrison, still under the influence of slumber.
"You can tell what you think about a name the first time you hear it, I say?" rejoined the Emperor, raising his voice.
"Oh, certainly, sir!" said Mr. Harrison, arranging the whisker which had been next to the bolster with an unerring hand—"oh, most certainly!"
"Very well, then. Now, Mr. Harrison, give me your attention, if you please. I have here"—the Emperor pointed to Mr. Rodney's list—"the name James Bush." The Emperor paused, and Mr. Harrison tried to emerge from his last dream. "James Bush," repeated the Emperor.
"Indeed, sir!" said Mr. Harrison, feeling like a novice entangled in some complicated game—"indeed!"