"Eh?" he asked.
Then he sent his look—it was a quick darting look that saw everything in the twinkling of an ordinary person's eye—to the thin badly-dressed figure in the rear. "Eh? The boy? Oh—ah! My newly-found grandson."
"He is scarcely what I had hoped to find," said Mr. Brown, apologetic still. "Yet his mother was a good-looking woman and——"
"Be hanged to looks," said Mr. Carew. "He'll get on all the better without 'em. And you were never anything to boast of yourself you know. What's his name?"
"John."
"Um! John Brown. John Carew-Brown, we'll say. It's a pity it's not John Brown Carew."
"That's a matter that can easily be altered. It can be merely John Carew, if you like, and let the melodious Brown go hang."
"Eh? What does the boy say? What do you say John to changing your name and letting the Brown go hang?"
To Mr. Brown's surprise and consternation, the boy gave an emphatic "No."
"Ah!" said old Mr. Carew, "and how's that? Speak up, John."