‘Oh! curse Mr. Rathbone! I’ll cut his throat!’ cried Mr. Cripps, glancing anxiously down the walk. But unfortunately there was no outlet at the lower end, and he was compelled to turn and face the intruders. He looked also to the right and left, but on neither side was there an alcove into which he could retreat. Nothing was left for it but impudence, and luckily for him, this quality seldom deserted him at a pinch. Putting on his boldest manner, he strutted gaily, and with affected nonchalance, towards Abel and his uncle, who, as he advanced, stepped a little aside to look at him.
‘Why, as I live!’ cried Abel, ‘that’s Mr. Villiers’s valet—your nephew, Jukes.’
‘Lord save us! so it is,’ cried Mr. Jukes, lifting up his hands in astonishment. ‘Why, Crackenthorpe, what are you doing here—and in your master’s clothes?’
‘Truce to your jests, old fellow,’ said Mr. Cripps, waving him off, ‘and let me pass.’
‘What! disown your uncle!’ cried Mr. Jukes angrily, ‘and in the presence of his worthy master! The rascal would deny his own father. Pay me the ten crowns you borrowed yesterday.’
‘La! Mr. Willars, what’s the meaning of all this?’ asked Mrs. Nettleship.
‘Pon my soul, my angel, I don’t know, unless the old hunks has been drinking,’ replied Mr. Cripps. ‘The ‘rack punch has evidently got into his head, and made him mistake one person for another.’