"Old Crawshay!" murmured Pratt.
They got up to meet their visitor.
"Good-morning, my lads," said he, genially. "Surprised to see me, I dare say. We didn't part on the best of terms, but--well, let's shake hands and forget all about that. My daughter told me that you very kindly came to her assistance the other day. I'm obliged to you. I'm only sorry it didn't happen before we--but there, that's wiped up, isn't it? If you knew how I'd been pestered! By the way, one of you is related to my neighbour across the river, I understand."
"Yes, sir, that's me," said Pratt. "We're not on calling terms, though."
"Neither am I," rejoined Mr. Crawshay, with a smile. "We don't hit it together. He's a little----"
"Potty, sir," said Pratt, as the old gentleman caught himself up. "It's a sore trial to the rest of the family. We were only talking about his distressing affliction just before you came. He really ought to be shut up."
"Indeed! I wasn't aware that it was as bad as that. That is certainly very distressing."
"A most unusual form of mania, too. I never heard anything like it before. Of course, there are people who crab their own country and countrymen, but it's more talk than anything else. My poor uncle, however, goes so far as to employ foreigners, who stick tin-tacks into people."
"Bless my soul!"
"Pratt draws the long bow, sir," said Warrender, thinking it time to intervene.