The rest, disappointed of their Indian
hunt, were now moving back towards the inn; but the boy hastened on.
Hearing his quick footsteps, the man swung around with a snarl.
"I hope the boy isn't hurt," said the lad quietly. "Can I do anything for
you?"
The stranger looked keenly at him; then, recognizing by his mien and
voice that this at least was no booby, he smiled; the truculence of his
manner vanished, and he said:
"Your question is pat, my excellent friend, and I thank you for your
goodwill. As you perceive, my withers are not wrung."
He waved his right hand airily, and the boy noticed that it was covered
from wrist to knuckles with what appeared to be a fingerless glove of
black velvet.
"The boy has taken no harm. Hic niger est, as Horace somewhere hath it;
and black spells Indian to your too hasty friends yonder. Scipio is his
praenomen, bestowed on him by me to match the cognomen his already by
nature--Africanus, to wit. You take me, kind sir? But I detain you; your
ears doubtless itch for the eloquence of our condescending friend yonder;
without more ado then, good night!"
And turning on his heel, waving his gloved hand in salutation, the
stranger went his way. The lad watched him wonderingly. For all his
shabbiness he appeared a gentleman. His speech was clean cut, his accent
pure; yet in his tone, as in his dress, there was something unusual, a
touch of the theatrical, strange to that old sleepy town.
He hoisted the negro into the cart, then mounted to his place beside the
driver, and the vehicle rumbled away.
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