Harlan had never seen the residence of General
Waymouth before, but that exterior seemed fitted to the man, such as he
knew him to be.
He admitted them himself, when they had waited a few moments after
sounding alarm with the ancient knocker. Framed in the door, he was a
picturesque figure. His abundant white hair hung straight down over his
ears, and curled outward at the ends; his short beard was snowy, but
there was healthful ruddiness on his face, and though his figure, tall
above the average, stooped a bit, he walked briskly ahead of them into
the library, crying delighted welcome over his shoulder. His meeting
with Thelismer Thornton had been almost an embrace.
"And this boosting big chap is Harlan--my grand-baby, Vard! Guess you
used to see him at 'The Barracks' when he was smaller. Since then he's
been trying to outgrow one of our spruce-trees."
The ex-Governor gave Harlan his left hand. The empty sleeve of the right
arm was pinned to the shoulder.
"The old Yankee stock doesn't need a step-ladder to stand on to light
the moon, so they used to say.
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