“I can put up with that,” he said again.  “I never interferes with nobody, and nobody don’t interfere with me; but what frightens me”—­his voice grew steady, as if too terrified to shake, is never knowin’ day to day what ’s to become of yer.  Oh, that ’a dreadful, that is!”

“It must be,” answered Shelton.

“Ah! it is,” the old man said; “and the winter cumin’ on.  I never was much used to open air, bein’ in domestic service all my life; but I don’t mind that so long as I can see my way to earn a livin’.  Well, thank God!  I’ve got a job at last”; and his voice grew cheerful suddenly.  “Sellin’ papers is not what I been accustomed to; but the Westminister, they tell me that’s one of the most respectable of the evenin’ papers—­in fact, I know it is.  So now I’m sure to get on; I try hard.”

“How did you get the job?” asked Shelton.

“I ’ve got my character,” the old fellow said, making a gesture with a skinny hand towards his chest, as if it were there he kept his character.

“Thank God, nobody can’t take that away!  I never parts from that”; and fumbling, he produced a packet, holding first one paper to the light, and then another, and he looked anxiously at Shelton.  “In that house where I been sleepin’ they’re not honest; they ’ve stolen a parcel of my things—­a lovely shirt an’ a pair of beautiful gloves a gentleman gave me for holdin’ of his horse.  Now, would n’t you prosecute ’em, sir?”

“It depends on what you can prove.”

“I know they had ’em.  A man must stand up for his rights; that’s only proper.  I can’t afford to lose beautiful things like them.  I think I ought to prosecute, now, don’t you, sir?”

Shelton restrained a smile.

“There!” said the old man, smoothing out a piece of paper shakily, “that’s Sir George!” and his withered finger-tips trembled on the middle of the page:  ’Joshua Creed, in my service five years as butler, during which time I have found him all that a servant should be.’  And this ’ere’—­he fumbled with another—­“this ’ere ’s Lady Glengow:  ’Joshua Creed—­’ I thought I’d like you to read ’em since you’ve been so kind.”

“Will you have a pipe?”

“Thank ye, sir,” replied the aged butler, filling his clay from Shelton’s pouch; then, taking a front tooth between his finger and his thumb, he began to feel it tenderly, working it to and fro with a sort of melancholy pride.

“My teeth’s a-comin’ out,” he said; “but I enjoys pretty good health for a man of my age.”

“How old is that?”

“Seventy-two!  Barrin’ my cough, and my rupture, and this ’ere affliction”—­he passed his hand over his face—­“I ’ve nothing to complain of; everybody has somethink, it seems.  I’m a wonder for my age, I think.”

Shelton, for all his pity, would have given much to laugh.

“Seventy-two!” he said; “yes, a great age.  You remember the country when it was very different to what it is now?”