"Then perhaps, while I write my letter, you will take a glass of wine,
Mr. Shrig?"
"Sir," he answered, "not beating about no bushes, I vill—Mr.
Werricker, sir."
"You know my name?" I exclaimed a little sharply.
"I dedooce same, sir, from them three letters on your secretary as is a-staring me straight in the face, Mr. Werricker."
"Pray, Anthony, oblige me by ringing the bell!" said I, taking up my pen.
Soft-treading, the discreet Clegg duly brought in decanter and glasses, and Mr. Shrig, watching him pour out the wine, drew from his capacious pocket a little book and opened it, much as though he would have read forth a text of Scripture, but all he said was:
"Thank 'ee, my man!" and then, as the door closed upon the discreetly silent Clegg, "Your 'ealth, gen'elmen!"
The letter to my uncle Jervas being written and despatched, I turned to find Mr. Shrig busied with his little book and a stumpy pencil, much as if he had been composing a sermon or address, while Anthony, lounging upon the settee, watched him with lazy interest.
"A on-commonly taking cove, sir, that young man o' yourn!" said Mr.
Shrig, pocketing book and pencil.
"Not more so than other servants, I believe," I answered.