In the candle-light they saw a thin man in red flannel night-cap with a blanket round his shoulders, sitting up in bed under an old green cart-umbrella. He was not old, but his face was thin and wasted, and his long colourless beard seemed papery. He had cunning, shifty eyes with red rims, and looked as mad as his setting.
Rackett had shoved Jack forward. The sick man stared at him and seemed suddenly pleased. He held out a thin hand. Rackett nudged Jack, and Jack had to shake. The hand seemed wet and icy, and Jack shuddered.
"How d'you do!" he mumbled. "I'm sorry, you know; I'm not your nephew."
"I know ye're not. But are y' Jack Grant?"
"Yes," said Jack.
The man under the umbrella seemed hideously pleased.
Jack heard Tom's ill-suppressed, awful chuckle from behind.
The sick man peered irritably at the other two. Then he nodded slowly, under the green baldachino of the old cart-umbrella.
"Jack Grant! Jack Grant! Jack Grant!" he murmured, to himself. He was surely mad, obviously mad.
"I'm right glad you've come, Cousin," he said suddenly, looking again very pleased. "I'm surely glad you've come in time. I've a nice tidy place put together for you, Jack, a small proposition of three thousand acres, five hundred cleared and cropped, fifty fenced—dog-leg fences, broke MacCullen's back putting 'em up. But I'll willingly put in five hundred more, for a gentleman like young master. Meaning old master will soon be underground. Well, who cares, now young master's come to light, and the place doesn't go out of the family! I am determined the place shall not go out of the family, Cousin Jack. Aren't you pleased?"