d no logical answer.

Mr. Marmaduke Manners and his lady came to fetch Dorothy home. He was
a foppish little gentleman who thought more of the cut of his waistcoat
than of the affairs of the province, and would rather have been bidden
to lead the assembly ball than to sit in council with his Excellency
the Governor. My first recollection of him is of contempt. He must needs
have his morning punch just so, and complained whiningly of Scipio if
some perchance were spilled on the glass. He must needs be taken abroad
in a chair when it rained. And though in the course of a summer he was
often at Carvel Hall he never tarried long, and came to see Mr.
Carvel's guests rather than Mr. Carvel. He had little in common with my
grandfather, whose chief business and pleasure was to promote industry
on his farm. Mr. Marmaduke was wont to rise at noon, and knew not wheat
from barley, or good leaf from bad; his hands he kept like a lady's,
rendering them almost useless by the long lace on the sleeves, and his
chief pastime was card-playing. It was but reasonable therefore, when
the troubles with the mother country began, that he chose the King's
side alike from indolence and contempt for things republican.

Of Mrs. Manners I shall say more by and by.

I took a mischievous delight in giving Mr. Manners every annoyance
my boyish fancy could conceive. The evening of his arrival he and Mr.
Carvel set out for a stroll about the house, Mr. Marmaduke mincing his
steps, for it had rained that morning. And presently they came upon
the windmill with its long arms moving lazily in the light breeze, near
touching the ground as they passed, for the mill was built in the Dutch
fashion. I know not what moved me, but hearing Mr. Manners carelessly
humming a minuet while my grandfather explained the usefulness of the
mill, I seized hold of one of the long arms as it swung by, and
before the gentlemen could prevent was carried slowly upwards. Dorothy
screamed, and her father stood stock still with amazement and fear, Mr.
Carvel being the only one who kept his presence of mind. "Hold on tight,
Richard!" I heard him cry. It was dizzy riding, though the motion was
not great, and before I had reached the right angle I regretted my
rashness. I caught a glimpse of the Bay with the red sun on it, and as
I turned saw far below me the white figure of Ivie Rawlinson, the
Scotch miller, who had run out. "O haith!" he shouted. "Hand fast,
Mr. Richard!"--And so I