“I fail to see why, uncle.”
“Well, more fool you. That is all I have to say, beyond this one reminder. I happen to know that if you persist in not seeking Miss Dove’s hand, she will soon be wooed, and very likely won, while you are thinking about it. Then it will be too late, my boy, and as to myself, I may have to leave England, perhaps very soon; but your—your considerate father, before he left Sydney, commissioned a friend to seek you out and advise you to turn your attention to matters of business, and not to wilfully neglect Wedwell Hall.”
Scarcely had Mr Goodall concluded what he was saying, when a servant announced the arrival of the “Ship Photographer.”
“I don’t know such a person,” replied the merchant, “but perhaps you won’t mind seeing him, Harry? At anyrate, show him up,” said Mr Goodall to the servant.
“Which ship of mine have you photographed, pray?” said the merchant to the man as he entered.
“Mr Goodall’s air-ship, sir.”
“Air-ship? That must be a vessel belonging to my nephew?”
“Yes, sir.”
The aeronaut here interposed, indignantly asking by what right the man had gained admittance?
“Stay, stay, Harry,” cried the merchant; “he may have something worth showing—something nautical, perhaps?”