“All right; quite well, thanks,” said Sam, tapping the extended hand with the cane. “Don’t want to dirt my glove. What have you been doing—digging potatoes?”
“Only tidying up the chair for Uncle James.”
“Hands look grubby. You should wash ’em. I say, what a beastly out-of-the-way place this is. Where’s Uncle Dick? I only had a coffee and roll before I left London. Can I have some breakfast?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“How’s dad?”
“Uncle James is better,” said Tom quietly; and just then there was a loud groaning sound from within the porch.
“Oh—oh—oh!” at regular intervals.
“Hullo!” said Sam; “what’s the matter? been killing somebody?”
“No. That’s Uncle James being brought down from his room.”
“Why, he wrote up and said he was better.”