“I thought you’d come down and have a pipe and a drop o’ brandy before you went back, my lad,” said the old man, in his grim, gruff way. “Sit down on yon tub. There’s some good tobacco there.”
“Ah, that looks sociable,” said Geoffrey, who was at heart a very gregarious animal. “I want to talk to you about terms.”
“What, for the mine?” said the old man, sharply.
“No: for lodgings, if you’ll have such a bad character in the house as I.”
“Been talking to them?” said the old fellow.
“Yes; and they are quite willing. Are you?”
“Oh, ay, I’m willing enough,” said Prawle, roughly. “I like bad characters,” he chuckled. “We’re all bad characters here—so they say.”
“Then I shall be in the right place,” said Geoffrey, cynically. “But come, what shall I pay you?”
“Whatever the old woman thinks right, my lad,” said the old man, who, in spite of his grim ways, seemed to glance with favouring eyes at his visitor. “Sattle it with that poor soul up yonder, and pay her the bit of money regular. Let her think—hold that glass upright while I pour in the hot water—now help yourself to the brandy. Never paid duty in its life,” he whispered, grinning.
Geoffrey poured in the spirit, and helped himself to the sugar. The old man mixed for himself, tasted, nodded, and went on—