He gave the place a slap, turned to the window, looked out at the soft fleecy clouds gliding overhead, and once more made for the door, crossed the little hall paved with large black slates, and then bounded up the oak stairs two at a time, to pause on the landing and give a sharp knuckle rap on the door before him; then, without waiting for a “Come in,” he entered, to stand, door in hand, gazing at the top of a big shaggy grey head, whose owner held it close to the sheets of foolscap paper which he was covering with writing in a bold, clear hand.
“Want me, uncle?”
The head was raised, and a pair of fierce-looking eyes glared at the interrupter of the studies from beneath enormously-produced, thick, white eyebrows, and through a great pair of round tortoise-shell spectacles.
“Want you, boy?” was the reply, as the speaker held up a large white swan-quill pen on a level with his sun-browned and reddened nose. “No, Lick. Be off!”
“I’m going to run over to Rockabie, uncle. Back to dinner. Want anything brought back?”
“No, boy; I’ve plenty of ink. No.—Yes. Bring me some more of this paper.”
The voice sounded very gruff and ill-humoured, and the speaker glared angrily, more than looked, at the boy.
“Here,” he continued, “don’t drown yourself.”
“Oh, no, uncle,” said the boy, confidently, “I’ll take care of that.”
“By running into the first danger you come across.”