One day there arrived at Brine's Rip Mills, driving in a smart trap which looked peculiarly unsuited to the rough backwoods roads, an imposing1 gentleman who wore a dark green Homburg hat, heavy, tan, gauntletted gloves, immaculate linen2, shining boots, and a well-fitting morning suit of dark pepper-and-salt, protected from the contaminations of travel by a long, fawn-coloured dust-coat. He also wore a monocle so securely screwed into his left eye that it looked as if it had been born there.
His red and black wheels labouring noiselessly through the sawdust of the village road, he drove up to the front door of the barn-like wooden structure, which staggered under the name, in huge letters, of the CONTINENTAL3 HOTEL. There was no one in sight to hold the horse, so he sat in the trap and waited, with severe impatience4, for some one to come out to him.
In a few moments the landlord strolled forth5 in his shirt-sleeves, chewing tobacco, and inquired casually6 what he could do for his visitor.
"I'm looking for Mr. Blackstock—Mr. J. T. Blackstock," said the stranger with lofty politeness. "Will you be so good as to direct me to him?"
The landlord spat7 thoughtfully into the sawdust, to show that he was not unduly9 impressed by the stranger's appearance.
"You'll find him down to the furder end of the cross street yonder," he answered pointing with his thumb. "Last house towards the river. Lives with old Mrs. Amos—him an' Woolly Billy."
The stranger found it without difficulty, and halted his trap in front of the door. Before he could alight, a tall, rather gaunt woodsman, with kind but piercing eyes and brows knitted in an habitual10 concentration, appeared in the doorway11 and gave him courteous12 greeting.
"Mr. Blackstock, I presume? The Deputy Sheriff, I should say," returned the stranger with extreme affability, descending13 from the trap.
"The same," assented14 Blackstock, stepping forward to hitch15 the horse to a fence post. A big black dog came from the house and, ignoring the resplendent stranger, went up to Blackstock's side to superintend the hitching16. A slender little boy, with big china-blue eyes and a shock of pale, flaxen curls, followed the dog from the house and stopped to stare at the visitor.
The latter swept the child with a glance of scrutiny17, swift and intent, then turned to his host.
"I am extraordinarily18 glad to meet you, Mr. Blackstock," he said, holding out his hand. "If, as I surmise19, the name of this little boy here is Master George Harold Manners Watson, then I owe you a debt of gratitude20 which nothing can repay. I hear that you not only saved his life, but have been as a father to him, ever since the death of his own unhappy father."
Blackstock's heart contracted. He accepted the stranger's hand cordially enough, but was in no hurry to reply. At last he said slowly:
"Yes, Stranger, you've got Woolly Billy's reel name all O.K. But why should you thank me? Whatever I've done, it's been for Woolly Billy's own sake—ain't it, Billy?"
For answer, Woolly Billy snuggled up against his side and clutched his great brown hand adoringly, while still keeping dubious21 eyes upon the stranger.
The latter took off his gloves, laughing amiably22.
"Well, you see, Mr. Blackstock, I'm only his uncle, and his only uncle at that. So I have a right to thank you, and I see by the way the child clings to you how good you've been to him. My name is J. Heathington Johnson, of Heathington Hall, Cramley, Blankshire. I'm his mother's brother. And I fear I shall have to tear him away from you in a great hurry, too."
"Come inside, Mr. Johnson," said Blackstock, "an' sit down. We must talk this over a bit. It is kind o' sudden, you see."
"I don't want to seem unsympathetic," said the visitor kindly23, "and I know my little nep............