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 maybe 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.