The third man captured us.  He was plainly dressed, but he had a noticeable air of neatness about him.  He wore a high silk hat which was a little old, but had been carefully brushed.  He wore second-hand kid gloves, in good repair, and carried a small rattan cane with a curved handle—­a female leg—­of ivory.  He stepped as gently and as daintily as a cat crossing a muddy street; and oh, he was urbanity; he was quiet, unobtrusive self-possession; he was deference itself!  He spoke softly and guardedly; and when he was about to make a statement on his sole responsibility or offer a suggestion, he weighed it by drachms and scruples first, with the crook of his little stick placed meditatively to his teeth.  His opening speech was perfect.  It was perfect in construction, in phraseology, in grammar, in emphasis, in pronunciation —­everything.  He spoke little and guardedly after that.  We were charmed.  We were more than charmed—­we were overjoyed.  We hired him at once.  We never even asked him his price.  This man—­our lackey, our servant, our unquestioning slave though he was—­was still a gentleman—­we could see that—­while of the other two one was coarse and awkward and the other was a born pirate.  We asked our man Friday’s name.  He drew from his pocketbook a snowy little card and passed it to us with a profound bow: 

A. Billfinger,
Guide to Paris, France, Germany,
Spain, &c., &c. 
Grande Hotel du Louvre.

“Billfinger!  Oh, carry me home to die!”

That was an “aside” from Dan.  The atrocious name grated harshly on my ear, too.  The most of us can learn to forgive, and even to like, a countenance that strikes us unpleasantly at first, but few of us, I fancy, become reconciled to a jarring name so easily.  I was almost sorry we had hired this man, his name was so unbearable.  However, no matter.  We were impatient to start.  Billfinger stepped to the door to call a carriage, and then the doctor said: 

“Well, the guide goes with the barbershop, with the billiard-table, with the gasless room, and may be with many another pretty romance of Paris.  I expected to have a guide named Henri de Montmorency, or Armand de la Chartreuse, or something that would sound grand in letters to the villagers at home, but to think of a Frenchman by the name of Billfinger!  Oh!  This is absurd, you know.  This will never do.  We can’t say Billfinger; it is nauseating.  Name him over again; what had we better call him?  Alexis du Caulaincourt?”

“Alphonse Henri Gustave de Hauteville,” I suggested.

“Call him Ferguson,” said Dan.

That was practical, unromantic good sense.  Without debate, we expunged Billfinger as Billfinger, and called him Ferguson.