“He’s better in health than temper, and if things are going on like this I shall be off somewhere, for I’m sick of it.”
For there had been quarrels daily between father and son, stormings against wife and servants, and poor Pringle the clerk had vowed to himself that he would not stay at the office for another week; but he always stayed, for there were reasons at home against his throwing himself out of work.
So Uncle James sat in his private room at the Gray’s Inn office, looking old, yellow, and biting his nails, like the ancient ogre, sometimes making up his mind in one direction, sometimes in another.
At last he touched his table gong, and, as quickly as he could get there, Pringle presented himself.
“You ring, sir?”
“You know I rang, sir,” cried Uncle James savagely. “Send him here directly.”
“Cert’ny, sir, but—er—”
“I said send him here.”
“Yes, sir. Who, sir?”
“Mr Samuel, you blockhead. Didn’t you hear what I said?”