Into the hall and back again.
“Fair,” says he. “I’ll not deny that ye’re doin’ better. But Sir Harry, lad,” says he, concerned, with a rub at his weathered nose, “uses more chest. Head high, lad; shoulders back, chest out. Come now! An’ a mite more chest.”
This time at a large swagger.
“Very good,” says he, in a qualified way. “But could ye not scowl t’ more purpose?”
’Twas fair heroic to indulge him––with the room full of the smell of browned meat. But, says I, desperately, “I’ll try, sir.”
“Jus’ you think, Dannie,” says he, “that that there ol’ rockin’-chair with the tidy is a belted knight o’ the realm. Come now! Leave me see how ye’d deal with he. An’ a mite more chest, Dannie, if ye’re able.”
A withering stare for the rocking-chair––superior to the point of impudence––and a blank look for the unfortunate assemblage of furniture.
“Good!” cries my uncle. “Ecod! but I never knowed Sir Harry t’ do it better. That there belted rockin’-chair o’ the realm, Dannie, would swear you was a lord! An’ now, lad,” says he, fondly smiling, “ye may feed.”[5]