“The judge must be real bad if he has sent for his wife,” observed Mr. Brentin. “On reflection, we will try him with two thousand. Come right alawng in, sir, and I will present you.”
I followed him into the bedroom, and there we found Sir Anthony lying, propped up in bed. He was a long, gaunt man, with a grizzling beard, a hook-nose, like a tulwar, and a quantity of rough, brown hair turning gray. By his side was sitting a small, dry, prim old lady, reading from a book, with gold pince-nez, and notwithstanding our entrance she went steadily on.
“Stop that now, Nanny,” Sir Anthony called, fretfully, stretching his hand out of the bed over the page, “and let us hear what these men want.”
“Sir Anthony and Lady Hipkins,” said Mr. Brentin, politely, with a bow to each, his hat in his hand, “permit me to present to you my young friend, Mr. Vincent Blacker. He is in want of a yacht, and though he has his eye on several, would be glad to learn particulars of yours before concluding.”
Sir Anthony rolled his bony head on the pillow and groaned. Directly he withdrew his hand from the page the dry old lady went on with her reading in a curious, dull, flat voice. Mr. Brentin came to the foot of the bed, and, leaning his arms on the brass rail, surveyed him sympathetically.
“Are you too sick, judge,” he asked, “to discuss business matters with us?”
“And in the eleventh year of Joram, the son of Ahab—” droned her ladyship.
“Go away, Nanny,” shouted Sir Anthony, pointing to the opposite door; “go into the next room, or go out and take a walk.”
Mr. Brentin opened the door, and, after putting the Bible on the bed under Sir Anthony’s big nose, Lady Hipkins left the room quietly, as she was directed.
“You’re Mr. Brentin, ain’t you?” asked the judge. “Beg your pardon for not recognizing you. What did you say your friend’s name was?”