Bumpett’s wrath turned into a fine irony.
“No, no, indeed,” he replied, mouthing his words and twisting himself round to look up in Mrs. Walters’ face; “he! he! true; true words, ma’am. Ah, I see ye have a wonderful knowledge o’ business.”
“I will call Williams,” she said, “and tell him to pay you.”
“Pay me, will he? Not him! He can’t,” shouted the old man in a kind of ecstasy, as he almost capered by the table.
George came in from the yard at Mrs. Walters’ summons; he stopped, hesitating in the passage outside.
“Come in, Williams,” she said, with so little trace of expression in her voice that he almost feared the Pig-driver had overruled her good feelings towards him. The old man looked the picture of excited and triumphant malice.
“Mr. Bumpett has come to be paid,” she said, as he entered.
“I have,” exclaimed Bumpett, “an’ high time I was, too. Now then, down wi’ your money, George Williams! A rich man like you shouldn’t hang back! Where is it, eh?”
He grinned at George as a cat might grin at the mouse between his claws.