"Is my father at home, Gibbs?" asked Dick.
"He's in the library, Mr. Dick. Your uncle is with him."
"My uncle? You mean——?"
"Mr. Larabee," finished the butler.
"Oh!" exclaimed Dick, regretfully. "Uncle Ezra here!" he murmured. "I wonder what's wrong at Dankville? Or, maybe there's some new plan afoot, and that I have, after all, to go and live with him." There was dismay on Dick's face.
For Uncle Ezra Larabee was not a very pleasant individual. He was quite wealthy, but he did not enjoy his money. He had a fine place at Dankville, a village about a hundred miles from Hamilton Corners, but the house, which was gloomy in itself, was hidden in the midst of a grove of dark fir trees, that made it more gloomy than ever. Inside scarcely a room was open to the sunlight, and once, when on his trial-visit, Dick had opened the parlor to look at some pictures, his Aunt Samanthy exclaimed in horror that the apartment was never used save for funerals.
Dick's Uncle Ezra was a curious, crabbed sort of a man, who doubtless meant well, but who had a queer way of showing it. He liked order and neatness to extreme, and there was not a misplaced stick or a stone about his farm and house. He even disliked to have persons step on the gravel walks, for fear of dislodging some of the small stones, and spoiling the trim symmetry of the paths.
Mr. Larabee was very fond of money—too fond, Mr. Hamilton used to think, for the millionaire was of a generous disposition. Uncle Ezra never could reconcile himself to Dick having such a fortune in his own right. More than once he and his nephew had quarreled over what Uncle Ezra called the "foolishness" of Mrs. Hamilton, his sister, leaving so much money to a mere youth. Of a sour disposition, hating to spend a cent unnecessarily, somewhat bitter against Dick's habit of making his money bring him pleasure, and helping others with his wealth, it is no wonder that when Uncle Ezra came to Hamilton Corners Dick was not happy. Mr. Hamilton himself was not overly-fond of his brother-in-law, but he always treated him well.
"I suppose I may as well go in the library, say how d'ye do to my respected relative, and get a bad job over with," remarked Dick, in no pleasant frame of mind at the information Gibbs furnished. "Uncle Ezra will be sure to scold me for 'wasting my time' as he calls it, at the military school, and he's positive to make a fuss about Grit. He always does. Grit, old man, I guess you'd better stay out in the hall, until we get this business over with. You remember Uncle Ezra, don't you?"
Grit whined, and growled. Evidently he did remember. It was no easy matter to make him stay away from Dick, and out in the hall, but he knew when to mind, and, with a sort of reproachful look on his ugly but honest face, the bulldog stretched out on a rug, as much as to say: