"Hold on with your chaff for a minute, Billy," he says, looking up. "Paul is writing on business, and I want just to get hold of it as I go along."
So Mr. Dunlop thinks he will do a little official work; and having selected a sheet of foolscap with "Office of H.M. Stannaries" lithographed on it, fills in the date in a very bold and flowing hand (the gentlemen of the Stannaries Office always boasted that they were not "mere clerks," and that their penmanship "didn't matter"), then takes out his penknife, and begins adjusting the toilet of his nails.
Meanwhile George Wainwright plods his way with difficulty through Paul's letter where the writing is so small and the lines so close together, and his brows become more contracted and his face more set and stern as he proceeds. This is what he reads:
"The Tower, Beachborough.
"DEAR OLD MAN,--I have so much writing at that confounded shop--don't grin, now: I can see your cynical old under-lip shooting out at the statement--that I thought I'd give my pen a holiday as well as myself; and indeed I should not favour you with a sight of that 'bowld fist' which so disgusts that old beast Branwhite--saw his name in the Post as having been present at the Inverness gathering, hanging on to swells as usual--if there had not been absolute occasion.
"By Jove? what a tremendously long sentence that is! Rather broken-backed and weak in the knees too, eh? Don't seem to hang well together? Rather a 'solution of continuity,' as they call it, isn't there? Never mind, you'll understand what I mean. You see, my dear old George, I don't know whether it is because I'm bored by being in the country--and a fellow who is accustomed to town life must necessarily hate everything else, and find it all horribly slow and dreary--but the fact is, that instead of my leave doing me good, and setting me up, and all that kind of thing, I find myself utterly depressed and wretched, and nothing like half so well or so jolly as when I came down here.
"I thought I should go out boating and swimming and riding, and generally larking; and instead of that I find myself sitting grizzling over my pipe, and wondering what on earth I'm to do until evening, and how I shall get through the time after dark until I can go to bed.
"You would go blazing away at your old books, or your writing, or your music; but I'm not in that line, old boy. I haven't got what people call 'resources'--in any way, by Jove! tin, or anything else. I want to be amused, and I don't get it here, and that's all about it.
"You see, the truth is--and what's the good of having a fellow for your pal, if you can't speak the truth to him, and what people in the play call 'unbosom yourself,' and so on?--the truth is, our household here is most infernally dull. I hadn't seen any of them for so long, that they all came upon me like novelties; and they're so deuced original, that they would be most interesting studies, if they did not happen to be one's own people, don't you see, and that takes all the humour out of the performance. There's my governor, for instance, is the most wonderful party! If he were anybody else's governor he'd be quite good fun enough for me to render the place sufficiently agreeable. I don't think I should want any greater amusement than seeing him go yawning about the house and through the village, bored out of his life, and wishing everything at the devil. He seemed to pluck up a bit when I first came down, and wanted to know all the news about town, and talked about this fellow and that fellow--I knew the names well enough, and had met a good many of the people; but when we came to compare notes, I found that the governor was inquiring about the fathers of the fellows I knew--fellows with the same names, you understand; and when I explained this to him, and told him that most of his pals were dead or gone under, don't you know, and that their sons reigned in their stead, he cut up rather rough, and said he didn't know what the world was coming to, and that young men weren't half as well brought-up nowadays as they were in his time. Funny idea that, wasn't it? As though we could help these old swells going under! Fact is--I don't like to confess it, and would not to anybody but you, George--but since the governor has got off the main line of life they have shunted him into the siding for fogeydom, and there's not much chance of his coming out again.
"I find a great change in my mother too. I've spoken to you so often about all these domesticities, that I don't mind gossiping to you now. It's an immense relief to me. I feel if I had not someone to confide in, I should blow up. Well, you know, my mother was always the best man in our household, and managed everything according to her own will; but then she had a certain tact and savoir faire, a way of ruling us all that no one could find fault with; and though we grumbled inwardly, we never took each other into confidence, or combined against the despotism. I find that's all altered now. Either she has lost tact, or we have lost patience--a little of both, perhaps; but, at all events, her attempts at rule and dictation are very palpable and very pronounced, and our ripeness for revolt is no longer concealed. In point of fact, the one thing which the governor and I have in common is our impatience of the female thrall, and if ever we combine, it will be to pass the Salic law.