He raised himself amongst his cushions, and Peter saw an old yellow wrinkled face with the skin drawn tight over the cheekbones and little black shining eyes like drops of ink. A wrinkled claw shot out and clutched Peter's hand.
“Do you love your grandfather, boy?”
“Of course, grandfather.”
“That's right, that's right—on a nice sunny morning, too. Do you love your father, boy?”
“Of course, grandfather.”
“He, he—oh, yes—all the Westcotts love their fathers. He loved his father when he was young, didn't he? Oh, yes, I should rather think so.”
And his voice rose into a shrill scream so that Peter jumped. Then he began to look Peter up and down.
“You'll be strong, boy, when you're a man—oh, yes, I should rather think so—I was strong once.... Do you hear that?... I was strong once, he, he!”
And here grandfather Westcott, overcome by his chuckling, began to cough so badly that Peter was afraid that he was going to be ill, and considered running for Aunt Jessie.
“Hit my back, boy—huh, huh! Ugh, ugh! That's right, hit it hard—that's better—ugh, ugh! Oh! deary me! that's better—what a nasty cough, oh, deary me, what a nasty cough! I was strong once, boy, hegh, hegh! Indeed I was, just like your father—and he'll be just like me, one day! Oh! yes, he will—blast his bones! He, he! We all come to it—all of us strong men, and we're cruel and hard, and won't give a poor old man enough for his breakfast—and then suddenly we're old ourselves, and what fun that is! Oh! Yes, your father will be old one day!” and suddenly, delighted with the thought, the old man slipped down beneath his cushions and was fast asleep.