The Amateur Gentleman

Your loving, but desperate, RONALD BARRYMAINE.

Having read this effusion twice over, and very carefully, Barnabas

was yet staring at the last line with its scrawling signature, all

unnecessary curls and flourishes, when he heard a slight sound in

the adjacent box, and turning sharply, was just in time to see the

top of a hat ere it vanished behind the curtain above the partition.

Therefore he sat very still, waiting. And lo! after the lapse of

half a minute, or thereabouts, it reappeared, slowly and by

degrees--a beaver hat, something the worse for wear. Slowly it rose

up over the curtain--the dusty crown, the frayed band, the curly brim,

and eventually a pair of bold, black eyes that grew suddenly very

wide as they met the unwinking gaze of Barnabas. Hereupon the lips,

as yet unseen, vented a deep sigh, and, thereafter, uttered these

words: "The same, and yet, curse me, the nose!--y-e-s, the nose seems, on

closer inspection, a trifle too aquiline, perhaps; and the

chin--y-e-s, decidedly a thought too long! And yet--!" Here another

sigh, and the face rising into full view, Barnabas recognized the

bewhiskered gentleman he had noticed in the yard.

"Sir," continued the stranger, removing the curly-brimmed hat with a

flourish, and bowing over the partition as well as he could,

"you don't happen to be a sailor--Royal Navy, do you?"

"No, sir," answered Barnabas.

"And your name don't happen to be Smivvle, does it?"

"No, sir," said Barnabas again.

"And yet," sighed the bewhiskered gentleman, regarding him with

half-closed eyes, and with his head very much on one side, "in spite

of your nose, and in spite of your chin, you are the counterpart, sir,

the facsimile--I might say the breathing image of a--ha!--of a

nephew of mine; noble youth, handsome as Adonis--Royal Navy--regular

Apollo; went to sea, sir, years ago; never heard of more; tragic,

sir--devilish tragic, on my soul and honor."

"Very!" said Barnabas; "but--"

"Saw you from the yard, sir, immediately struck by close resemblance;

flew here, borne on the wings of hope, sir; you 're quite sure your

name ain't Smivvle, are you?"

"Quite sure."

"Ah, well--mine is; Digby Smivvle, familiarly known as 'Dig,' at

your service, sir. Stranger to London, sir?"

"Yes," said Barnabas.

"Ha! Bad place, London, sink of iniquity! Full of rogues, rascals,

damn scoundrels,--by heaven, sharks, sir! confounded cannibals, by

George!--eat you alive. Stranger myself, sir; just up from my little

place in Worcestershire--King's Heath,--know it, perhaps? No?

Charming village! rural, quiet; mossy trees, sir; winding brooks,

larks and cuckoos carolling all day long. Sir, there has been a

Smivvle at the Hall since before the Conquest! Fine old place, the

Hall; ancient, sir, hoary and historic--though devilish draughty,

upon my soul and honor!"