Harry had looked up sharply to see Uncle Luke standing in the opening, a grim-looking grey figure in his old Norfolk jacket and straw hat, one hand resting on his heavy stick, the other carrying a battered fish-basket. The old man’s face was in shadow, for the sunshine streamed in behind him; but there was plenty of light to display his grim, sardonic features, as, after a short nod to Crampton, he gazed from under his shaggy brows piercingly at his nephew.
“Well, quill-driver,” he said sneeringly; “doing something useful at last?”
“Morning, uncle,” said Harry shortly; and he muttered to himself, “I should like to throw the ledger at him.”
“Hope he’s a good boy, hey?”
“Oh, he’s getting on, Mr Luke Vine—slowly,” said Crampton unwillingly. “He’ll do better by-and-by.”
A sharp remark was on Harry’s lips, but he checked it for a particular reason. Uncle Luke might have the money he wanted.
“Time he did,” said the old man. “Look here, boy,” he continued with galling, sneering tone in his voice. “Go and tell your master I want to see him.”
Harry drew a long breath, and his teeth gritted together.
“I caught a splendid conger this morning,” continued Uncle Luke, giving his basket a swing, “and I’ve brought your master half.”
“My master!” muttered Harry.