He was in his shirtsleeves; his corduroy
trousers were more picturesque than respectable; an enormous straw
hat, well tanned and chipped by wear, was stuck on the back of his
head.
"Hulloa!" he cried again.
I approached and asked, as soon as I could do so without shouting,
whether Miss Norton were at home.
"She is at home," replied the man, "and who may you be?"
"Perhaps you will kindly tell her," said I, making up by my civility
for his lack of it, "that Emilia Fletcher has come to see her."
Down went the spade, off came the disreputable hat.
"God bless my soul!" he cried, rubbing the earth off his fingers,
"so it's you, is it?"
He seemed doubtful whether his hand were fit to offer me or not, so
I relieved him of his anxiety by shaking it warmly.
"Come on indoors," said he; "let's surprise them; Gabriel will be
delighted," and he set off at a trot, I after him. He was not a
grand runner. I conjectured at once that his health is not good, and
that he probably looks ten years older than he really is. His hair
is almost white, his face deeply wrinkled.
When we reached the cottage door, he pushed me gently in, and I
found myself in what appeared to be a lumber-room.
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