“Look here, Joe,” he said; and Joe Jollivet, who had climbed up to six feet in the past two years, slowly rose from his table at the other side of the office, unfolding himself, as it were, like a carpenter’s double-hinged rule, and crossed to where Gwyn was seated with his table covered with correspondence.
Joe read the letter, and threw it back.
“Well,” he said, “it’s a pity they don’t sell it; but it’s the old story: father says ‘No,’ as he has started mining and it pays, he shall go on, so that I may succeed him.”
“And Colonel Pendarve, ex-officer of cavalry and now half-proprietor of Ydoll Mine, says precisely the same on behalf of his fine, noble, handsome son Gwyn. Look here, Joe, why don’t you drop it, and swell out the other way?”
“Going to begin that poor stuff again?” said Joe, sourly.
“You make me. I declare I believe you’ve grown another inch in the night. What a jolly old cucumber you are! You’ll have to go on your knees next time you go down the mine.”
“You answer your letter, and then I want to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“I’ll tell you directly you’ve written your letter. Get one piece of business out of your way at a time.”
“Dear me; how methodical we are,” said Gwyn; but he began writing his answer, while, instead of going back to his table, Joe crossed to the hearthrug, where Grip was lying curled up asleep, and bending down slowly he patted the dog’s head and rubbed his ears, receiving an intelligent look in return, while the curly feathery tail rapped the rug.