“Look here,” said Uncle Luke, “what is it you mean?”
“She’s got into a scrape at Mr Vine’s, sir—something about some money being missing—and I suppose she’ll have to come home, so I want to get her something to do.”
“Oh, she isn’t honest enough for my brother’s house, but she’s honest enough for mine.”
“Oh, the gal’s honest enough. It’s all a mistake. But I can’t afford to keep her at home, so, seeing as we’d had dealings together, I thought you’d oblige me and take her here.”
“Seeing as we’d had dealings together!” grumbled Uncle Luke.
“Everything is so untidy-like, sir,” said the old fish-dealer, looking round. “Down at your brother’s there’s everything a gentleman could wish for, but as to your place—why, there: it’s worse than mine.”
“Look here, Poll Perrow,” said the old eccentricity fiercely, “this is my place, and I do in it just as I like. I don’t want your girl to come and tidy my place, and I don’t want you to come and bother me, so be off. There’s a letter; take it down and post it for me: and there’s a penny for your trouble.”
“Thank ye, master. Penny saved is a penny got; but Mr George Vine would have given me sixpence—I’m not sure he wouldn’t have given me a shilling. Miss Louise would.”
Uncle Luke was already pointing at the door, towards which the woman moved unwillingly.
“Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you’ll be in a better temper then.”