Old Mr Paul pushed back his chair and made it scroop loudly on the summer-house floor, as he bared his yellow teeth in a grin.
“I thought so,” he exclaimed, with a harsh chuckle. “There, out with it, man! What’s the mine? Is it Wheal Ruby, or Bottom Friendship, or Evening Star, or what? How many shares are you going to stick into some noodle or another?”
“I sell shares? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Geoffrey. “I never held or sold one in my life. No, sir, I am no share-jobber. I have come down here to carve my way in quite different fashion.”
“In granite?” sneered the old man.
“In the world, Mr Paul,” said Geoffrey, rising. “And now I must be off. I want to have a good look round. I see that you and I will get on capitally together. Whenever you are in the humour throw open your door, and I’ll open mine, and we’ll quarrel. I enjoy a good row.”
He nodded shortly, and strode off, his stout boots rattling the shingle stones of the path, and the gate giving a loud bang behind him, while directly after the echo of his steps could be heard as he clattered down over the rough granite paving towards the shore.
“Curse him!” cried the old man, getting up and craning his neck out of the summer-house window to stare after his late companion. “He’s a great ugly, overgrown puppy: that’s what he is, and I was an old idiot to bring him up here. Insulted me. Laughed in my face. As good as told me that I was an old fool. Never mind: I’ll bring him down, big as he is, and he’ll do to keep out the parson. Here! hi! somebody, Madge, Madge,” he shouted, reseating himself, and banging the floor with his cane.
There was no reply.
“Madge!” roared the old man again, beating the table for a change.
“Madge has gone out, dear,” said plump Mrs Mullion, hurrying out to the summer-house.