“Well, sir, if it comes to that,” he faltered; and there was a weak comical aspect in his countenance which made Don burst out laughing.
“I know, uncle,” he cried, “he has got a sweetheart.”
“Well, Master Don,” said the young man, colouring up; “and nothing to be ashamed on neither.”
“Certainly not,” said the merchant quietly. “You had better get married, Wimble, and you can have the cottage. I will buy and lend you old Topley’s furniture.”
Wimble begged pardon afterwards, for on hearing all this astounding news, he rushed out of the office, pulled off his leather apron, put on his coat as he ran, and disappeared for an hour, at the end of which time he returned, went mysteriously up to Don and whispered,—
“It’s all right, sir; she says she will.”
The result was that Jem Wimble looked twice as important, and cocked his cocked hat on one side, for he had ten shillings a week more, and the furnished cottage, kept the keys, kept the men’s time, and married a wife who bore a most extraordinary likeness to a pretty little bantam hen.
This was three months before the scene just described, but though Jem spoke in authoritative tones to the men, it was with bated breath to his little wife, who was standing in the doorway looking as fierce as a kitten, when Jem walked up in company with his young master.
“Which I will not find fault before Master Lindon, Jem,” she said; “but you know I do like you to be home punctual to tea.”
“Yes, my dear, of course, of course,” said Jem, apologetically. “Not much past time, and had to shut up first.”