As he spoke, I saw my ancient figure walk quietly out at the door. I don’t know, but I thought I heard him laugh a little after closing it. For my own part I was so elated, that I could not think of going to bed, so I sat drinking and singing, building castles in the air, and ruminating upon the magnificent figure which I should oppose against the fascinations of Fitzcrocky, in the eyes of Julia. I determined, with the afternoon of that day, to commence my triumphal progress in her affections. In fact, I never noticed how time slipped by, and when the entrance of some one at the door aroused me, and I collected my scattered senses, it was at least four hours after sunrise.
“Gollamighty!” exclaimed the voice of Scipio. “What de debbil we got heah? Trange man in massa’s bed-room, and he not up yit. What you want, eh? He some tief—some robber.”
“Why you old fool,” said I, “don’t you see it’s me—myself?”
“Who me?—what dat, eh? Debbil tak me if I no b’lieve dat he has murdered massa and teal all de spoons! Help! murder!”
“What do you mean, you old villain!” cried I. “Do you want to bring in the whole neighborhood?” and seizing a candlestick, I leveled it at his woolly pate.
“What do you mean, you scoundrel, by abusing my servant?” roared a voice from the bed. I looked in that direction. There was my head protruded from the curtains, surmounted by a red night-cap, and a clenched fist was violently shaken at me from the same purlieu.
“Turn him out, Scipio!” I shouted.
“Turn him out!” repeated my Eidolon, if I may so term him.
“Turn who out!” queried Scipio, in a state of profound bewilderment.
Perfectly frantic with rage, I flew toward the bed, eager for a pugilistic encounter, when the door was thrown open, and my old housekeeper, with pallid visage, peeped into the apartment. I determined to make an appeal to her.