"That I poach that I may live to—poach again, sir. I am, at once, a necessitous poacher, and a poacher by necessity."
"And what by choice?"
"A gentleman, sir, with plenty of money and no ambitions."
"Why deny ambition?"
"Because I would live a quiet life, and who ever heard of an ambitious man ever being quiet, much less happy and contented?"
"Hum!" said Barnabas, "and what were you by profession?"
"My calling, sir, was to work for, think for, and shoulder the blame for others—generally fools, sir. I was a confidential servant, a valet, sir. And I have worked, thought, and taken the blame for others so very successfully, that I must needs take to poaching that I may live."
"But—other men may require valets!"
"True, sir, and there are plenty of valets to be had—of a sort; but the most accomplished one in the world, if without a character, had better go and hang himself out of the way, and have done with it. And indeed, I have seriously contemplated so doing."
"You rate yourself very highly."
"And I go in rags! Though a professed thief may do well in the world, though the blackest rascal, the slyest rogue, may thrive and prosper, the greatest of valets being without a character, may go in rags and starve—and very probably will."
"Hum!" said Barnabas.
"Now, to starve, sir, is unpleasant; thus I, having a foolish, though very natural, dread of it, poach rabbits that I may exist. I possess also an inborn horror of rags and dirt, therefore I—exchanged this coat and breeches from a farmhouse, the folk being all away in the fields, and though they are awkward, badly-made garments, still beggars—and—"
"Thieves!" added Barnabas.
"And thieves, sir, cannot always be choosers, can they?"
"Then you admit you are a thief?"
Here the fugitive glanced at Barnabas with a wry smile.
"Sir, I fear I must. Exchange is no robbery they say; but my rags were so very ragged, and these garments are at least wearable."
"You have also been a—great valet, I understand?"
"And have served many gentlemen in my time."
"Then you probably know London and the fashionable world?"
"Yes, sir," said the man, with a sigh.
"Now," pursued Barnabas, "I am given to understand, on the authority of a Person of Quality, that to dress properly is an art."
The fugitive nodded. "Indeed, sir, though your Person of Quality should rather have called it the greatest of all the arts."
"Why so?"
"Because by dress it is possible to make—something out of nothing!"
"Explain yourself."
"Why, there was the case of young Lord Ambleside, a nobleman remarkable for a vague stare, and seldom saying anything but 'What!' or 'Dey-vil take me!' though I'll admit he could curse almost coherently—at times. I found him nothing but a lord, and very crude material at that, yet in less than six months he was made."
"Made?"
"Made, sir," nodded the fugitive. "I began him with a cravat, an entirely original creation, which drew the approval of Brummell himself, and, consequently, took London by storm, and I continued him with a waistcoat."
"Not a—white one?" Barnabas inquired.
"No, sir, it was a delicate pink, embroidered with gold, and of quite a new cut and design, which was the means of introducing him to the notice of Royalty itself. The Prince had one copied from it, and wore it at a state reception. And I finished him with a pair of pantaloons which swept the world of fashion clean off its legs, and brought him into lasting favor with the Regent. So my Lord was made, and eventually I married him to an heiress."
"You married him?"
"That is to say, I dictated all his letters, and composed all his verses, which speedily brought the affair to a happy culmination."
"You seem to be a man of many and varied gifts?"
"And one—without a character, sir."
"Nevertheless," said Barnabas, "I think you are the very man I require."
"Sir," exclaimed the fugitive, staring, "sir?"
"And therefore," continued Barnabas, "you may consider yourself engaged."
"Engaged, sir—engaged!" stammered the man—"me?"
