"And you do not know him?"
"Not I--except for the silly fool he is!"
"Then you do not know--well, someone you ought to know!" the stranger answered dryly. "You are getting old, Mr. Ferguson."
My master cursed his impudence.
"I am afraid that you do not keep abreast of the rising generation," the other continued, coolly eyeing the rage his words excited. "And for your Shaftesburys, and Monmouths, and Ludlows, and the old gang, they don't count for much now. You must look about you, Mr. Ferguson; you must look about you and open your eyes, and learn new tricks, or before you know it you will find yourself on the shelf."
It would be difficult to exaggerate the fury into which this threw my master; he raved, stamped, and swore, and finally, having recourse to his old trick, tore off his wig, flung it on the ground, and stamped on it. "There!" he cried, with horrible imprecations, the more horrible for the bald ugliness of the man, "and that is what I will do to you--by-and-by, Mr. Smith. On the shelf, am I? And need new tricks? Hark you, sir, I am not so much on the shelf that I cannot spoil your game, whatever it is. And G-- d-- me but I will!"
Mr. Smith, listening, cool and dark-faced, shrugged his shoulders; but for all his seeming indifference, kept a wary eye on the plotter. "Tut--tut, Mr. Ferguson, you are angry with me," he said. "And say things you do not mean. Besides, you don't know----"
"Know?" the other shrieked.
"Just so, know what my game is."
"I know this!" Ferguson retorted, dropping his voice on a sudden to a baleful whisper, "Who is here, and where he lies, Mr. Smith. And----"