“So I do, sir, so I do—heaps,” cried the old man eagerly.
“We have not so many friends,” continued Septimus, laying down his pen and stretching out his hand, “that we can afford to behave slightingly to their advice, even if it is unpalatable.”
Old Matt took the proffered hand, and shook it warmly, before going on with his subject.
“Well, sir,” said Matt, “you say he told you out flat that you were a—a—well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, yes,” said Septimus drearily, for he had so familiarised himself in thought with the word, that it had ceased to bring up an indignant flush to his cheek.
“Well,” said Matt, “then the whole of our work—I say ‘our,’ you know—”
Septimus nodded.
“The whole of our work consists in proving him false.”
“Exactly,” said Septimus, sticking his pen behind his ear; “but how?”
“Documentary evidence,” said the old man, “that’s it; documentary evidence,” and he took snuff loudly. “Marriage stiffikits, baptism registers, and so on. Let’s see; I don’t think there was any regular registration in those days. Now then, to begin with, sir. Where were your father and mother married?—that is, if they were,” muttered the old man in what was meant for an undertone, but Septimus heard the words.