“I know the name,” said Stratford. “Hicks was the ‘Crier’ correspondent who made himself so prominent over the Thracian business. He was arrested and conducted to the frontier while the second revolution was going on.”
“The very worst kind of busybody!” said Sir Dugald, wrathfully. “I only wish that Drakovics had shot him when he had him safe. What does he mean by poking himself in here?”
“He is in search of marketable ‘copy,’ without a doubt,” said Stratford, “and he is taking the most direct way to get it. He has a fancy for talking and behaving like a sort of semi-civilised Artemus Ward, which takes in a good many people; but he is considered about the smartest man on the ‘Crier’ staff, and that is saying a good deal.”
“Whatever his fancies may be,” growled Sir Dugald, “I don’t see that they are any excuse for the man’s thrusting himself upon me out of business hours without the ghost of an introduction.”
“Still, dear,” said Lady Haigh, “we had better have him in and be friendly to him. In a place like this white people are bound to hang together, and I dare say we shall find him very pleasant.”
“Bring the sahib in,” said Sir Dugald, shortly, to Chanda Lal, adopting his wife’s pacific suggestion, but without any lightening of countenance; and presently the bearer ushered in a lank, sallow man, rather over middle age, with a straggling lightish beard, and hair that seemed to stand somewhat in need of the scissors. As Fitz said afterwards, if he had only worn striped trousers and a starred waistcoat, Mr Hicks would have represented to the life the Brother Jonathan of American, not English, caricaturists. Sir Dugald received his visitor with frigid politeness, and the staff, taking their cue from him, did the same; but Mr Hicks appeared to feel no embarrassment, although the tender hearts of Lady Haigh and Georgia were moved to pity on his account. He was duly supplied with coffee; and when Georgia had passed him a plate of cakes he stretched his long limbs comfortably as he reclined in a cane chair and beamed upon the party.
“It makes one feel real high-toned,” he said, slowly, “to be waited upon out here at the back of creation by two lovely and cultured daughters of Albion.”
Sir Dugald gave him a stony glance in reply; while the younger men, uncertain whether the remark was to be considered as due to deliberate rudeness or to ignorance, wavered between amusement and indignation. Lady Haigh answered pleasantly but coldly—
“We are not accustomed to be treated to quite such elaborate compliments, Mr Hicks; but no doubt American manners differ from ours. So I have always understood, at least.”
“You bet they do, ma’am!” was Mr Hicks’ reply, delivered with almost startling emphasis. “When your nigger let me in just now, and the General there stepped forward and said, ‘Mr Hicks, I presume?’ hanged if I didn’t think I had got into a Belgravian drawing-room, or into Central Africa with Stanley, instead of finding a party of civilised white people in the midst of Ethiopia! I guess I’m not cut out for shows of this kind, any way.”