“My dear friend,” says Grandfather Smallweed with those two lean affectionate arms of his stretched forth. “How de do? How de do? Who is our friend, my dear friend?”
“Why this,” returns George, not able to be very conciliatory at first, “is Matthew Bagnet, who has obliged me in that matter of ours, you know.”
“Oh! Mr. Bagnet? Surely!” The old man looks at him under his hand.
“Hope you’re well, Mr. Bagnet? Fine man, Mr. George! Military air, sir!”
No chairs being offered, Mr. George brings one forward for Bagnet and one for himself. They sit down, Mr. Bagnet as if he had no power of bending himself, except at the hips, for that purpose.
“Judy,” says Mr. Smallweed, “bring the pipe.”
“Why, I don’t know,” Mr. George interposes, “that the young woman need give herself that trouble, for to tell you the truth, I am not inclined to smoke it to-day.”
“Ain’t you?” returns the old man. “Judy, bring the pipe.”
“The fact is, Mr. Smallweed,” proceeds George, “that I find myself in rather an unpleasant state of mind. It appears to me, sir, that your friend in the city has been playing tricks.”
“Oh, dear no!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “He never does that!”