"Yes, sir," I replied, somewhat at a loss; "quite so, sir!"

"I just thought I'd wise you up beforehand."

"Thank you, sir," I said, for his intention beneath the weird jargon
was somehow benevolent. "And if you'll be good enough to wait until I
have taken tea to the Honourable George----"

"How is the Judge this morning?" he broke in.

"The Judge, sir?" I was at a loss, until he gestured toward the room
of the Honourable George.

"The Judge, yes. Ain't he a justice of the peace or something?"

"But no, sir; not at all, sir."

"Then what do you call him 'Honourable' for, if he ain't a judge or
something?"

"Well, sir, it's done, sir," I explained, but I fear he was unable to
catch my meaning, for a moment later (the Honourable George, hearing
our voices, had thrown a boot smartly against the door) he was
addressing him as "Judge" and thereafter continued to do so, nor did
the Honourable George seem to make any moment of being thus miscalled.

I served the Ceylon tea, together with biscuits and marmalade, the
while our caller chatted nervously. He had, it appeared, procured his
own breakfast while on his way to us.