“Ah, you never did like London.”
“And London never liked me, so we’re even there. Well,” he continued after a pause filled up by a low muttering grunt, “what do you want? You didn’t send for me to come and tell you that I had caught a cold on my journey down, or got a rheumatic twinge.”
“No, no, Luke, of course not.”
“Nice one, ’pon my word!” muttered Crampton.
“Well, what is it?”
Crampton moved toward the door, his way lying by Uncle Luke; but just as he neared the opening, the visitor made a stab at the wall with his heavy stick, and, as it were, raised a bar before the old clerk, who started violently.
“Bless my heart, Mr Luke Vine!” he cried; “what are you about? Don’t do that.”
“Stop here, then. Who told you to go?”
“No one, sir, but—”
“How do I know what he wants. I may be glad of a witness.”