He wetted his lips and pulled at his collar again—
"In New York, sir."
On our drive homeward he told his story. Early in manhood he had been a carpenter by day, by night a student of the ancient languages, which he acquired by dint of such zeal and sacrifice that Dr. Primrose, then in the zenith of his own career, discovering the talents of the poor young artisan, urged and aided him to obtain a pulpit in a country town. He proved, I imagine, an indifferent preacher, drifting from place to place, and from denomination to denomination, to become at last a teacher of Greek and Latin in the Sand Ridge Normal and Collegiate Institute. Whatever moments he could spare from his academic duties, he had devoted eagerly to Egyptian monuments, and more particularly to that one of Iris-Iris which had baffled full half a century of learned men.
"But how did you do it?" I inquired. He wriggled delightedly in the carriage-seat.
"Doctor," he said, "how does a man perform some marvellous surgical feat, which no one had ever done, or dreamed of doing, before? Eh?"
"I see," I replied, nodding sagely. "Such things are beyond our ken."
"I did it," he chuckled. "I did it, doctor. And now, sir—"
He paused significantly.
"You are going to New York," I said.
"Exactly. To—"