Betteredge took a chair and seated himself at the table. He produced a

huge old-fashioned leather pocket-book, with a pencil of dimensions to

match. Having put on his spectacles, he opened the pocket-book, at a

blank page, and addressed himself to me once more.

"I have lived," said Betteredge, looking at me sternly, "nigh on fifty

years in the service of my late lady. I was page-boy before that, in the

service of the old lord, her father. I am now somewhere between seventy

and eighty years of age--never mind exactly where! I am reckoned to have

got as pretty a knowledge and experience of the world as most men. And

what does it all end in? It ends, Mr. Ezra Jennings, in a conjuring

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trick being performed on Mr. Franklin Blake, by a doctor's assistant

with a bottle of laudanum--and by the living jingo, I'm appointed, in my

old age, to be conjurer's boy!"

Mr. Blake burst out laughing. I attempted to speak. Betteredge held up

his hand, in token that he had not done yet.

"Not a word, Mr. Jennings!" he said, "It don't want a word, sir, from

you. I have got my principles, thank God. If an order comes to me, which

is own brother to an order come from Bedlam, it don't matter. So long

as I get it from my master or mistress, as the case may be, I obey it. I

may have my own opinion, which is also, you will please to remember, the

opinion of Mr. Bruff--the Great Mr. Bruff!" said Betteredge, raising his

voice, and shaking his head at me solemnly. "It don't matter; I withdraw

my opinion, for all that. My young lady says, 'Do it.' And I say, 'Miss,

it shall be done.' Here I am, with my book and my pencil--the latter not

pointed so well as I could wish, but when Christians take leave of their

senses, who is to expect that pencils will keep their points? Give

me your orders, Mr. Jennings. I'll have them in writing, sir. I'm

determined not to be behind 'em, or before 'em, by so much as a hair's

breadth. I'm a blind agent--that's what I am. A blind agent!" repeated

Betteredge, with infinite relish of his own description of himself.

"I am very sorry," I began, "that you and I don't agree----"

"Don't bring ME, into it!" interposed Betteredge. "This is not a

matter of agreement, it's a matter of obedience. Issue your directions,

sir--issue your directions!"

Mr. Blake made me a sign to take him at his word. I "issued my

directions" as plainly and as gravely as I could.




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