twenty years of age, by our reckoning. Now
you know as much of Mr. Franklin Blake as I
did—before Mr. Franklin Blake came down to
our house.

The Thursday was as fine a summer's day as
ever you saw: and my lady and Miss Rachel
(not expecting Mr. Franklin till dinner-time)
drove out to lunch with some friends in the
neighbourhood.

When they were gone, I went and had a look
at the bedroom which had been got ready for
our guest, and saw that all was straight. Then,
being butler in my lady's establishment as well
as steward (at my own particular request, mind,
and because it vexed me to see anybody but
myself in possession of the key of the late Sir
John's cellar)—then, I say, I fetched up some
of our famous Latour claret, and set it in the
warm summer air to take off the chill before
dinner. Concluding to set myself in the warm
summer air next—seeing that what is good for
old claret is equally good for old age—I took
up my beehive chair to go out into the back
court, when I was stopped by hearing a sound
like the soft beating of a drum on the terrace
in front of my lady's residence.

Going round to the terrace, I found three
mahogany-coloured Indians, in white linen
frocks and trousers, looking up at the house.

The Indians, as I saw on looking closer, had
small hand-drums slung in front of them.
Behind them stood a little delicate-looking light-
haired English boy carrying a bag. I judged
the fellows to be strolling conjurors, and the
boy with the bag to be carrying the tools of
their trade. One of the three, who spoke
English, and who exhibited, I must own, the most
elegant manners, presently informed me that
my judgment was right. He requested permission
to show his tricks in the presence of the
lady of the house.

Now I am not a sour old man. I am generally
all for amusement, and the last person in
the world to distrust another person because he
happens to be a few shades darker than myself.
But the best of us have our weaknesses—and
my weakness, when I know a family plate-
basket to be out on a pantry table, is to be
instantly reminded of that basket by the sight of
a strolling stranger whose manners are superior
to my own. I accordingly informed the Indian
that the lady of the house was out; and I
warned him and his party off the premises. He
made me a beautiful bow in return; and he and
his party went off the premises. On my side, I
returned to my beehive chair, and set myself
down on the sunny side of the court, and fell (if
the truth must be owned), not exactly into a
sleep, but into the next best thing to it.

I was roused up by my daughter Penelope,
running out at me as if the house was on fire.
What do you think she wanted? She wanted
to have the three Indian jugglers instantly
taken up; for this reason, namely, that they
knew who was coming from London to visit us,
and that they meant some mischief to Mr.
Franklin Blake.

Mr. Franklin's name roused me. I opened
my eyes, and made my girl explain herself.

It appeared that Penelope had just come
from our lodge, where she had been having a
gossip with the lodge-keeper's daughter. The
two girls had seen the Indians pass out, after I
had warned them off, followed by their little
boy. Taking it into their heads that the boy
was ill used by the foreigners—for no reason
that I could discover, except that he was pretty
and delicate-looking—the two girls had stolen
along the inner side of the hedge between us
and the road, and had watched the proceedings
of the foreigners on the outer side. Those
proceedings resulted in the performance of the
following extraordinary tricks.

They first looked up the road, and down the
road, and made sure that they were alone. Then
they all three faced about, and stared hard in
the direction of our house. Then they jabbered
and disputed in their own language, and looked
at each other like men in doubt. Then they all
turned to their little English boy, as if they
expected him to help them. And then the chief
Indian, who spoke English, said to the boy,
"Hold out your hand."

On hearing those dreadful words, my daughter
Penelope said she didn't know what prevented
her heart from flying straight out of her. I
thought privately that it might have been her
stays. All I said, however, was, "You make
my flesh creep." (Nota bene: women like these
little compliments.)

Well, when the Indian said "Hold out your
hand," the boy shrunk back, and shook his
head, and said he didn't like it. The Indian
thereupon asked him (not at all unkindly)
whether he would like to be sent back to
London, and left where they had found him,
sleeping in an empty basket in a market—a hungry,
ragged, and forsaken little boy. This, it seems,
ended the difficulty. The little chap unwillingly
held out his hand. Upon that, the Indian took a
bottle from his bosom, and poured out of it
some black stuff, like ink, into the palm of the
boy's hand. The Indian—first touching the
boy's head, and making signs over it in the air—
then said, "Look." The boy became quite stiff,
and stood like a statue, looking into the ink in
the hollow of his hand.

(So far, it seemed to me to be juggling,
accompanied by a foolish waste of ink. I was
beginning to feel sleepy again, when Penelope's
next words stirred me up.)

The Indians looked up the road and down
the road once more—and then the chief Indian
said these words to the boy: "See the English
gentleman from foreign parts."

The boy said, "I see him."

The Indian said, "Is it on the road to this
house, and on no other, that the English
gentleman will travel to-day?"

The boy said, "It is on the road to this
house, and on no other, that the English
gentleman will travel to-day."

The Indian put a second question—after
waiting a little first. He said: "Has the English
gentleman got It about him?"