Tom was starting up, but the old man forced him back into his chair.
“Sit still, you young fool. You are in love, arn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Tom bitterly.
“I’ll give you a dose for the complaint,” chuckled the old fellow.
Then there was a knock at the door, which he opened, and a neat-looking servant bustled in and spread the table with the snowiest of cloths and brightest of old-fashioned glass and silver, ending by placing the first portion of a capitally cooked dinner on the table, and sending all the cats out of the window into the gutter, where they sat down patiently in a row, to gaze solemnly through the panes of glass till the repast was at an end.
“Why, I thought you were very poor!” said Tom, gazing curiously at his shabbily dressed host, as he opened a massive carved oak cellaret, and took out a wine bottle that looked as old as the receptacle.
“Hey? Thought I was poor? More fool you!—you’re always thinking stupid things. You’ve gone about nearly two years thinking Jessie don’t care for you.”
Tom started as if he had been stung; but he sank back in his chair, gazing wonderingly at the quaint old fellow, as he opened the bottle to pour out a couple of large glasses of generous fluid; and began wondering how much he knew.
“There, you handsome young long-eared donkey!” cried Hopper, placing one glass in the young man’s fingers—“that’s the finest Burgundy to be got for love or money. That’ll give you strength of mind, and blood to sustain, and make you take a less bilious view of things than you do now. Catch hold! I’m an old-fashioned one, I am. Here’s a toast. Are you ready?”
Tom took the glass, and nodded.