“You can’t get an engagement then, my lad, eh?”
“No,” said Geoffrey, lighting up; “not yet.”
“No; nor you won’t. That you won’t,” chuckled the old man, as Geoffrey sat himself on the summer-house table, and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, began swinging one leg backwards and forwards.
“I’ve tried at twenty mines in the month I’ve been here,” said Geoffrey, “and pointed out ways of saving that would pay me a good salary ten times over, and put money in the proprietors’ or shareholders’ pockets.”
“Yes, and they laugh at you, don’t they?”
“Confoundedly,” said Geoffrey.
“Keep that leg still,” said the old man, poking at the swinging member with his cane.
Geoffrey gave the cane a kick, and sent it flying out on to the grass-plot, making Uncle Paul turn white with rage; but the young man got leisurely down and picked it up, retaining it in his hand as he reseated himself, and began making passes with it at a knot in the wood.
“Give me my cane,” said the old man, angrily.
“They’re as blind as moles to their own interests,” said Geoffrey.