“Why didn’t you bring Teazer with you?”
“Oh, somebody must be left to look after the plate. Young ’un,” said he to me, “are you any judge of horses?”
“No, I know nothing of horses, nor of clothes’ horses either,” I replied, hardly relishing his freedom before my uncle Tom, whose behaviour to me was uniformly courteous and even deferential; and yet not choosing to resent it, for fear of being made to cut a ridiculous figure.
“Hullo! he’s a wag, Tom. Is that a French pun, nephew?” he asked, with a droll wink at his brother.
“What are you going to do now?” said uncle Tom, coming to my rescue.
“Why, I shall go and get a basin of soup at Dixon’s, and then drive over to Grove End?”
“Lunch with my wife—you’ll be in time.”
“Thank you; now that I’m here, I’ll have a talk with Philpotts, your nursery-man, about some seed he’s advertising.”
“The phaeton will be here at four; join us. We’ll drive you to Grove End.”
“All right,” answered my stout uncle, rising laboriously. “Good-bye for the present, Tom; good-bye, young ’un.”