Of High Descent. Fenn George Manville

as we’d had dealings together!” grumbled Uncle Luke.

      “Everything is so untidy-like, sir,” said the old fish-dealer, looking round. “Down at your brother’s there’s everything a gentleman could wish for, but as to your place – why, there: it’s worse than mine.”

      “Look here, Poll Perrow,” said the old eccentricity fiercely, “this is my place, and I do in it just as I like. I don’t want your girl to come and tidy my place, and I don’t want you to come and bother me, so be off. There’s a letter; take it down and post it for me: and there’s a penny for your trouble.”

      “Thank ye, master. Penny saved is a penny got; but Mr George Vine would have given me sixpence – I’m not sure he wouldn’t have given me a shilling. Miss Louise would.”

      Uncle Luke was already pointing at the door, towards which the woman moved unwillingly.

      “Let me come up to-morrow and ask you, Mr Luke, sir. Perhaps you’ll be in a better temper then.”

      “Better temper!” he cried wrathfully. “I’m always in a better temper. Because I refuse to ruin myself by having your great, idle girl to eat me out of house and home, I’m not in a good temper, eh? There, be off! or I shall say something unpleasant.”

      “I’m a-going, sir. It’s all because I wouldn’t buy half a fish, as I should have had thrown on my hands, and been obliged to eat myself. Look here, sir,” cried the woman, as she adjusted the strap of her basket, “if I buy the bit of fish will you take the poor gal then?”

      “No!” cried Uncle Luke, slamming the door, as the woman stood with her basket once more upon her back.

      “Humph!” exclaimed the old woman, as she thrust the penny in her pocket, and then hesitated as to where she should place the letter.

      While she was considering, the little window was opened and Uncle Luke’s head appeared.

      “Mind you don’t lose that letter.”

      “Never you fear about that,” said the old woman; and as if from a bright inspiration she pitched it over her head into her basket, and then trudged away.

      “She’ll lose that letter as sure as fate,” grunted Uncle Luke. “Well, there’s nothing in it to mind. Now I suppose I can have a little peace, and – Who’s this?”

      He leaned a little farther out of his window, so as to bring a curve of the cliff-path well into view.

      “My beautiful nephew and that parasite. Going up to Leslie, I suppose – to smoke. Waste and debauchery – smoking.”

      He shut the window sharply, and settled himself down with his back to it, determined not to see his nephew pass; but five minutes later there was a sharp rapping at the door.

      “Uncle Luke! Uncle!”

      The old man made no reply.

      “Here, Uncle Luke. I know you’re at home; the old woman said so.”

      “Hang that old woman!” grumbled Uncle Luke; and in response to a fresh call he rose, and opened his door with a snatch.

      “Now then, what is it? I’m just going to bed.”

      “Bed at this time of the day?” cried Harry cheerfully. “Why you couldn’t go to sleep if you did go.”

      “Why not?” snapped the old man; “you can in the mornings – over the ledger.”

      Harry winced, but he turned off the malicious remark with a laugh.

      “Uncle loves his joke, Pradelle,” he said. “Come, uncle, I don’t often visit you; ask us in.”

      “No, you don’t often visit me, Harry,” said the old man, looking at him searchingly; “and when you do come it’s because you want something.”

      Harry winced again, for the old man’s words cut deeply.

      “Oh, nonsense, uncle! Pradelle and I were having a stroll, and we thought we’d drop in here and smoke a cigar with you.”

      “Very kind,” said the old man, looking meaningly from one to the other. “Missed meeting the girls, or have they snubbed you and sent you about your business?”

      “Have a cigar, uncle?” said Harry, holding out his case. “I tell you we came on purpose to see you.”

      “Humph!” said Uncle Luke, taking the handsome morocco cigar-case, and turning it over and over with great interest. “How much did that cost?”

      “Don’t remember now: fifteen shillings I think.”

      “Ah,” said Uncle Luke, pressing the snap and opening it. “One, two, three, four; how much do these cigars cost?”

      “Only fourpence, uncle; can’t afford better ones.”

      “And a cigar lasts – how long?”

      “Oh, I make one last three-quarters of an hour, because I smoke very slowly. Try one one.”

      “No, thankye; can’t afford such luxuries, my boy,” said the old man, shutting the case with a snap, and returning it. “That case and the cigars there cost nearly a pound. Your income must be rising fast.”

      Harry and Pradelle exchanged glances. The reception did not promise well for a loan. “Cigar does you good sometimes.”

      “Harry,” said the old man, laughing and pointing at the case.

      “What’s the matter, uncle?” said Harry eagerly; “want one?”

      “No, no. Why didn’t you have it put on there?”

      “What?”

      “Crest and motto, and your title – Comte des Vignes. You might lose it, and then people would know where to take it.”

      “Don’t chaff a fellow, uncle,” said Harry, colouring. “Here, we may come and sit down, mayn’t we?”

      “Oh, certainly, if your friend will condescend to take a seat in my homely place.”

      “Only too happy, Mr Luke Vine.”

      “Are you now? Shouldn’t have thought it,” sneered the old man. “No wine to offer you, sir; no brandy and soda; that’s the stuff young men drink now, isn’t it?”

      “Don’t name it, my dear sir; don’t name it,” said Pradelle, with an attempt at heartiness that made the old man half close his eyes. “Harry and I only came up for a stroll. Besides, we’ve just dined.”

      “Have you? That’s a good job, because I’ve only a bit of conger in the house, and that isn’t cooked. Come in and sit down, sir. You, Harry, you’ll have to sit down on that old oak chest.”