“Indeed! I never heard him speak—”
“No, I dare say; it was near the end of his life. I was near by, and rendered him some assistance, when he died suddenly of apoplexy. He was not so much of a man as your grandfather.”
“Was he not?” asked Mr. Bixby, musingly. He was thinking how old the grandfather of his friend Bangs must have been.
“No,” continued the elderly gentleman; “but even his judgment I never considered equal to that of your great-grandfather.”
“Here is, indeed, a friend—a friend of the family. Why is Mr. Bangs away?” thought Mr. Bixby, and he bent his head a little, and looked under the drop-light, to get a view of his visitor. He saw only the reflection on his spectacles, and drew back suddenly, for fear of being detected.
“You like a good song, I have heard, Mr. Bangs,” came from the other side of the table. “Have you any favorite?”
Mr. Bixby did not understand this at all. The question puzzled him. Should he as Bangs fall in the estimation of some relative if he admitted the fact? Or did his visitor intend to sing? However, he felt compelled to be frank, so he said:
“Oh, yes; I like a good song. Some of the Scotch ballads please me most. There is ‘The Land o’ the Leal.’”
“A very fine song, sir. A very fine song. It is a credit to any man to like that song.”
The old gentleman was excited. Mr. Bixby was just congratulating himself on having given Bangs a lift, when his thoughts were turned into an altogether new channel by the following remark: