"Ah—we'll have a dance, of course—we used to have a dance always; finished up with a dance. I've been thinking—and I don't mind telling you—that this imagination and fudge is making us all old before our time; and I'm not going to stand any more of it, and that's all about it."
With that old Joe Wilkings waved his stick and jumped up—that's what he did; and he ninety-seven years and nine weeks! Talk about greyness!
Kate stared, and all the neighbours stared, and Mrs. Widdlcombe's pug next door stared so that its eyes nearly fell out, as old Joe trotted quickly out of the garden and down the street, and trotted up Mr. Worble's steps, and tapped at the door like a boy that means to run away; and when they opened the door, up he ran to old Worble's room, and toddled in.
"OLD JOE TROTTED QUICKLY OUT OF THE GARDEN."
And now comes in old Joe Wilkings's other remarkable quality—his influence over others. It was all the outcome of his wonderful determination—the influence of mind over matter. He could bamboozle anyone, could Joe—it was for all the world like magic.
Old Worble was drooping over the fire in his big chair, into which he had been put hours before.
What did old Joe do but go right up and slap him on the back in that hearty way that old Worble went as near screaming as his weak state would let him!
"Get up, Georgie Worble," shouted old Joe," and come round with me to Sam Waggs to arrange about that picnic!"
Old Worble crooned and doddered, and feebly repeated "Picnic?"