And, in this moment a bedraggled object began to make its appearance,
slowly and by degrees resolving itself into a battered hat. Inch by
inch it rose up over the window-ledge--the dusty crown--the frayed
band--the curly brim, and beneath it a face there was no mistaking
by reason of its round, black eyes and the untamable ferocity of its
whiskers. Hereupon, with its chin resting upon the window-sill, the
head gently shook itself to and fro, sighed, and thereafter
pronounced these words: Devilish pale! Deuced thin! But himself again. Oh, lucky dog! With
Fortune eager to dower him with all the treasures of her cornucopia,
and Beauty waiting for him with expectant arms, oh, lucky dog! Oh,
happy youth! Congratulations, Beverley, glad of it, my dear fellow,
you deserve it all and more. Oh, fortunate wight!
But, as for me--you behold the last of lonely Smivvle, sir, of
bereaved Digby--of solitary Dig. Poor Barrymaine's star is set and
mine is setting--westwards, sir--my bourne is the far Americas,
Beverley.
"Ah, Mr. Smivvle!" exclaimed Barnabas, sitting up, "I'm glad to see
you--very glad. But what do you mean by America?"
"Sir," answered Mr. Smivvle, shaking his head and sighing again,
"on account of the lamentable affair of a month ago, the Bow Street
Runners have assiduously chivvied me from pillar to post and from
perch to perch, dammem! Had a notion to slip over to France, but the
French will insist on talking their accursed French at one, so I've
decided for America. But, though hounded by the law, I couldn't go
without knowing precisely how you were--without bidding you
good-by--without endeavoring to thank you--to thank you for poor
Barry's sake and my own, and also to return--"
"Come in," said Barnabas, stretching out his hand, "pray come
in--through the window if you can manage it."
In an instant Mr. Smivvle was astride the sill, but paused there to
glance about him and twist a whisker in dubious fingers.
"Coast clear?" he inquired. "I've been hanging about the place for a
week hoping to see you, but by Gad, Beverley, you're so surrounded
by watchful angels--especially one in an Indian shawl, that I didn't
dare disturb you, but--"
"Pooh, nonsense--come in, man!" said Barnabas. "Come in, I want your
help--"
"My help, Oh Gemini!" and, with the word, Mr. Smivvle was in the room.
"My help?" he repeated. "Oh Jupiter--only say the word, my dear
fellow."
"Why, then, I want you to aid me to dress."
"Dress? Eh, what, Beverley--get up, is it?"
"Yes. Pray get me my clothes--in the press yonder, I fancy."
"Certainly, my dear fellow, but are you strong enough?" inquired
Mr. Smivvle, coming to the press on tip-toe.
"Strong enough!" cried Barnabas in profound scorn, "Of course I am!"
and forthwith sprang to the floor and--clutched at the bedpost to
save himself from falling.