“A strong man, my boy,” he said. “I bred him—he’s my son—I was the same myself once.”
“You find your father altered—eh, Mr. Bookbinder?”
“If he is at all, doctor, it’s nothing that won’t improve on a little management and wholesome company.”
“Well, he’s had plenty of mine.”
“Then his state’s accounted for,” I said.
The long man looked at me with an expression not pleasant.
“Ay,” he said. “There’s the old spirit forward again. We’ve done very well without it since the last of the fry took themselves off.”
“It’s not company you batten on, doctor,” I said. “But loneliness breeds other evils than coin-collecting.”
He stared at me a moment, then took off his hat with an ironical sweep.
“I mustn’t forget my manners to a London rattle,” he said. “No doubt you pride yourself on a very pretty wit, sir. But while you talk my lunch grows cold; so I’ll even take the liberty of wishing you good-morning.”