“Mr Wol—— Mr who, sir?—I did not hear you.”
“Mr Wolstang.”
“Mr Wolstang!” re-echoed the girl, with some surprise.
“Assuredly, I ask you if Mr Wolstang is within.”
“Mr Wolstang!” reiterated she. “Ha ha, ha! how droll you are to-day, master!”
“Damnation! what do you mean?” cried I in a fury, which I now found it impossible to suppress, “Tell me this instant if Mr Wolstang, your master, is at home, or by the beard of Socrates, I—I——”
“Ha, ha! this is the queerest thing I ever heard of,” said the little jade, retreating into the house, and holding her sides with laughter. “Come here, Barnabas, and hear our master asking for himself.”
I now thought that the rage into which I had thrown myself had excited the laughter of the wench, whom I knew very well to be of a frolicsome disposition, and much disposed to turn people into ridicule. I therefore put on as grave a face as I could—I even threw a smile into it—and said, with all the composure and good-humour I could muster, “Come now, my dear—conduct me to your master—I am sure he is within.” This only set her a-laughing more than ever; not a word could I get out of her. At last Barnabas made his appearance from the kitchen, and to him I addressed myself. “Barnabas,” said I, laying my hand upon his arm, “I conjure you, as you value my happiness, to tell me if Mr Wolstang is at home?”
“Sir!” said Barnabas, with a long stare.