“Don’t chaff a fellow, uncle,” said Harry, colouring. “Here, we may come and sit down, mayn’t we?”
“Oh, certainly, if your friend will condescend to take a seat in my homely place.”
“Only too happy, Mr Luke Vine.”
“Are you now? Shouldn’t have thought it,” sneered the old man. “No wine to offer you, sir; no brandy and soda; that’s the stuff young men drink now, isn’t it?”
“Don’t name it, my dear sir; don’t name it,” said Pradelle, with an attempt at heartiness that made the old man half close his eyes. “Harry and I only came up for a stroll. Besides we’ve just dined.”
“Have you? That’s a good job, because I’ve only a bit of conger in the house, and that isn’t cooked. Come in and sit down, sir. You, Harry; you’ll have to sit down on that old oak chest.”
“Anywhere will do for me, uncle. May we smoke?”
“Oh, yes, as fast as you like; it’s too slow a poison for you to die up here.”
“Hope so,” said Harry, whose mission and the climb had made him very warm.
“Now, then,” said Uncle Luke, fixing his eyes on Pradelle—like gimlets, as that gentleman observed on the way back; “what is it?”