I was seated in an armchair in my private study in a small town on the
west coast of England. It was a splendid afternoon, and it was exactly
five o'clock. Mark that. Not that there is anything singular about the
mere fact, neither is it in any way mixed up with the thread of this
tale; but old Agnes is very obstinate--singularly positive--and I have a
special desire that she should see it in print, that I have not given in
on that point. Yes, it was five precisely, and a beautiful evening. I
was ruminating, as I frequently do, on the pleasant memories of bygone
days, especially the happy days that I spent long ago among the coral
islands of the Pacific, when a tap at the door aroused me.
"Come in."
"A veesiter, sir," said old Agnes (my landlady), "an' he'll no gie his
name."
Old Agnes, I may remark, is a Scotchwoman.
"Show him in," said I.
"Maybe he's a pickpocket," suggested Agnes.
"I'll take my chance of that."
"Ay! that's like 'ee. Cares for naethin'. Losh, man, what if he cuts
yer throat?"
"I'll take my chance of that too; only _do_ show him in, my good woman,"
said I, with a gesture of impatience that caused the excellent (though
obstinate) old creature to depart, grumbling.
In another moment a quick step was heard on the stair, and a stranger
burst into the room, shut the door in my landlady's face as she followed
him, and locked it.
I was naturally surprised, though not alarmed, by the abrupt and
eccentric conduct of my visitor, who did not condescend to take off his
hat, but stood with his arms folded on his breast, gazing at me and
breathing hard.
"You are agitated, sir; pray be seated," said I, pointing to a chair.
The stranger, who was a little man and evidently a gentleman, made no
reply, but, seizing a chair, placed it exactly before me, sat down on it
as he would have seated himself on a horse, rested his arms on the back,
and stared me in the face.
"You are disposed to be facetious," said I, smiling (for I never take
offence without excessively good reason).
"Not at all, by no means," said he, taking off his hat and throwing it
recklessly on the floor. "You are Mr Rover, I presume?"
"The same, sir, at your service."
"Are you? oh, that's yet to be seen! Pray, is your Christian name
Ralph?"
"It is," said I, in some surprise at the coolness of my visitor.
"Ah! just so. Christian name Ralph, t'other name Rover--Ralph Rover.
Very good. Age twenty-two yesterday, eh?"
"My birthday _was_ yesterday, and my age _is_ twenty-two. You appear to
know more of my private history than I have the pleasure of knowing of
yours. Pray, sir, may I--but, bless me! are you unwell?"
I asked this in some alarm, because the little man was rolling about in
his seat, holding his sides, and growing very red in the face.
"Oh no! not at all; perfectly well--never was better in my life," he
said, becoming all at once preternaturally grave. "You were once in the
Pacific--lived on a coral island--"
"I did."
"Oh, don't trouble yourself to answer. Just shut up for a minute or
two. You were rather a soft green youth then, and you don't seem to be
much harder or less verdant now."
"Sir!" I exclaimed, getting angry.
"Just so," continued he, "and you knew a young rascal there--"
"I know a rascal _here_," I exclaimed, starting up, "whom I'll kick--"
"What!" cried the little stranger, also starting up and capsizing the
chair; "Ralph Rover, has time and sunburning and war so changed my
visage that you cannot recognise Peterkin?"