Pons was all of sixty years.

He was mostly toothless, and, despite a pronounced limp that compelled him to go slippity-hop, he was very alert and spry in all his movements.

Also, he was impudently familiar.

This was because he had been in my house sixty years.

He had been my father's servant before I could toddle, and after my father's death (Pons and I talked of it this day) he became my servant.