Mr. Brentin explained that I was Mr. Vincent Blacker, a gentleman of position and the highest integrity, an officer in Queen Victoria’s militia.
“Oh, ah!” said the judge, sitting up in bed and scratching his legs ruefully. “And he wants to buy a yacht?”
“He has almost concluded for the purchase of one,” Mr. Brentin replied, “but I have suggested he should wait—”
The judge began most unexpectedly to laugh, bending his head between his knees and stifling his merriment with the counterpane.
“The judge is better,” observed Mr. Brentin, with a wave of his hand. “The presence of gentlemen who sympathize with his complaint, and the likelihood of completing—”
“It’s too damn ridiculous,” laughed the judge, “to be caught shamming Abraham like this, by George! Serves me right. You see, Mr. Blacker, after three years of the Gold Coast I was naturally anxious to see whether London had greatly altered in my absence, and, consequently, neglected to go and reside at Norwood with her ladyship. Whereupon her ladyship wrote, demanding the reason of my lengthy stay in the metropolis. What was I to do but say I was too ill to move, but that the minute I was well enough—” Sir Anthony went off laughing again, and I laughed too.
“But that midnight groaning-act of yours, judge,” asked the shocked Brentin, “which so much disturbed and alarmed Mrs. Brentin and myself?”
“Oh, that was genuine enough,” chuckled Sir Anthony; “but it was more the thought of having to go to Norwood and attend the concerts at the Crystal Palace than any actual physical pain.”
Mr. Brentin’s visage clouded over, and he grew sombre and grave. With true American chivalry, he could not bear the idea of any one imposing on a woman, especially an old and plain one.
“However,” said the judge, “I’m rightly punished by her ladyship’s descending on me and forcing me to go to bed—not to mention the Book of Kings, and all my smoke cut off.”