Thompson who was a smart, dapper-looking swarthy man, with closely cut hair, very small mutton chop whiskers, and dark beady eyes, threw away the half-smoked cigar, gave a touch to his carefully-tied white cravat, glanced down at his brightly polished boots, and let his eyes rest upon his very closely fitting Bedford cord trousers before crossing the yard, whistling in a nonchalant manner, and walking into the servants’ hall, where Matthew Sinkins was waiting with his tool basket on the floor by his side.
“Hallo, chips!” said Thompson, condescendingly, “how’s trade?”
“Pretty tidy, Mr Thompson,” said the carpenter, slowly, and taking out the two-foot rule which dwelt in a long narrow pocket down one leg of his trousers, but sheathing it again directly, as if it were a weapon which he did not at present need.
“Glad of it,” said Thompson. “Haven’t they asked you to have a horn of ale?”
“Yes, Mr Thompson; oh, yes. Miss Mason has gone to get one for me from Mr Morris.”
“Oh! has she?” said Thompson; and this news was of so discomforting a nature that he was taken a little aback. “Job on?”
“Yes, Mr Thompson, I’m wanted. You’re here again, then. Thought you was going abroad.”
“No,” said Thompson, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and see-sawing himself to and fro, from toe to heel and back. “No, we’re not gone yet, Mr Sinkins; and if it’s any pleasure to you to know it, I don’t see any likelihood of our going for some time to come. What have you got to say to that?”
Mr Sinkin’s big hand went deliberately down the leg of his trousers, and he half drew out the rule again, as if he meant to measure the captain’s attendant, but he allowed the narrow strip of boxwood to glide back into its place and breathed hard.
“I say, what have you got to say to that, Mr Sinkins?” said Thompson, nodding his head a good deal, and unconsciously making himself wonderfully like a pugnacious bantam cock ruffling himself in the presence of a heavy, stolid, barn-door fowl.