d him a slip of
paper with a name written on it. M. Grandissime folded it twice, gazed
out the window, and finally nodded. The clerk disappeared, and Joseph
Frowenfeld paused an instant in the door and then advanced, with a
buoyant good-morning.

"Good-morning," responded M. Grandissime.

He smiled and extended his hand, yet there was a mechanical and
preoccupied air that was not what Joseph felt justified in expecting.

"How can I serve you, Mr. Frhowenfeld?" asked the merchant, glancing
through into the counting-room. His coldness was almost all in Joseph's
imagination, but to the apothecary it seemed such that he was nearly
induced to walk away without answering. However, he replied:

"A young man whom I have employed refers to you to recommend him."

"Yes, sir? Prhay, who is that?"

"Your cousin, I believe, Mr. Raoul Innerarity."

M. Grandissime gave a low, short laugh, and took two steps toward his
desk.

"Rhaoul? Oh yes, I rhecommend Rhaoul to you. As an assistant in yo'
sto'?--the best man you could find."

"Thank you, sir," said Joseph, coldly. "Good-morning!" he added turning
to go.

"Mr. Frhowenfeld," said the other, "do you evva rhide?"

"I used to ride," replied the apothecary, turning, hat in hand, and
wondering what such a question could mean.

"If I send a saddle-hoss to yo' do' on day aftah to-morrhow evening at
fo' o'clock, will you rhide out with me for-h about a hour-h and a
half--just for a little pleasu'e?"

Joseph was yet more astonished than before. He hesitated, accepted the
invitation, and once more said good-morning.

CHAPTER XXI

DOCTOR KEENE RECOVERS HIS BULLET

It early attracted the apothecary's notice, in observing the
civilization around him, that it kept the flimsy false bottoms in its
social errors only by incessant reiteration. As he re-entered the shop,
dissatisfied with himself for accepting M. Grandissime's invitation to
ride, he knew by the fervent words which he overheard from the lips of
his employee that the f.m.c. had been making one of his reconnoisances,
and possibly had ventured in to inquire for his tenant.

"I t'ink, me, dat hanny w'ite man is a gen'leman; but I don't care if a
man are good like a h-angel, if 'e har not pu'e w'ite '_ow can_ 'e be a
gen'leman?"

Raoul's words were addressed to a man who, as he rose up and handed
Frowenfeld a note, ratified the Creole's sentiment by a spurt of tobacco
juice and an affirmative "Hm-m."

The no