Mr. Butson made no answer.
“It’s a great credit to your business instinks, that tin o’ spiced beef. I almost wish I ’ad took another slice or so, now.” As a fact, Uncle Isaac had not been offered a further helping—perhaps because he had already taken three. “I almost wish I ’ad. . . . Never mind. It’ll do another time. . . . Come now, I’ve ’alf a mind to get Nan to wrop it up for my breakfast!”
The suggestion was made as of a novel and striking idea, but Mr. Butson showed no flash of enthusiasm. He swung his chair slowly round on one leg till he faced Uncle Isaac. Then he put his cigar carefully on the mantelpiece and said:—“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy!”
The sudden severity of the voice drew Uncle Isaac’s eyes from the ceiling and his feet from under the table simultaneously.
“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy! You’re bin so very kind as to celebrate this ’ere weddin’ o’ mine with four good ’eavy suppers an’ about a pint o’ whisky at my expense. I’m very grateful for that, an’ I won’t trouble you no more. See? This is the end o’ the celebration. I’m goin’ to eat my supper in future, me an’ my wife, without your assistance; an’ breakfast too. Understand?”
Uncle Isaac’s feet retreated under his chair, and his eyes advanced to an alarming protrusion.
“See what I mean?” Butson went on, with growing offence in his voice. “Jest you buy yer own suppers an’ eat ’em at ’ome, or else go without.”
Speech was denied Uncle Isaac. He blinked and choked. What did it mean? Was it a dream? Was he Uncle Isaac, respected and deferred to, the man of judgment and influence, and was he told, thus outrageously, to buy his own supper?
“Yus,” said Butson, as though in answer to his thoughts. “I mean it!”
Whereat Uncle Isaac, with a gasp and a roll of the eyes, found his tongue. “Mr. Butson!” he said, in a voice of dignified but grieved surprise. “Mr. Butson! I—I think I must ’a ’eard wrong. Otherwise I might put it as you may be sorry for sich words.”