“Is he?” Mr. Tulkinghorn quietly sits down to write.
“Well, sir,” says the trooper, looking into his hat, after another disconcerted pause; “I am sorry not to have given you more satisfaction. If it would be any satisfaction to any one, that I should be confirmed in my judgment that I would rather have nothing to do with this, by a friend of mine, who has a better head for business than I have, and who is an old soldier, I am willing to consult with him. I—I really am so completely smothered myself, at present,” says Mr. George, passing his hand hopelessly across his brow, “that I don't know but what it might be a satisfaction to me.”
Mr. Smallweed, hearing that this authority is an old soldier, so strongly inculcates the expediency of the trooper's taking counsel with him, and particularly informing him of its being a question of five guineas or more, that Mr. George engages to go and see him. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing either way.
“I'll consult my friend, then, by your leave, sir,” says the trooper, “and I'll take the liberty of looking in again with a final answer in the course of the day. Mr. Smallweed, if you wish to be carried down stairs———”
“In a moment, my dear friend, in a moment. Will you first let me speak half a word with this gentleman, in private?”
“Certainly, sir. Don't hurry yourself on my account.k” The trooper retires to a distant part of the room, and resumes his curious inspection of the boxes; strong, and otherwise.
“If I wasn't as weak as a Brimstone Baby, sir,” whispers Grandfather Smallweed, drawing the lawyer down to his level by the lappel of his coat, and flashing some half-quenched green fire out of his angry eyes, “I'd tear the writing away from him. He's got it buttoned in his breast. I saw him put it there. Judy saw him put it there. Speak up, you crabbed image for the sign of a walking-stick shop, and say you saw him put it there!”
This vehement conjuration the old gentleman accompanies with such a thrust at his grand-daughter, that it is too much for his strength, and he slips away out of his chair, drawing Mr. Tulkinghorn with him, until he is arrested by Judy, and well shaken.
“Violence will not do for me, my friend,” Mr. Tulkinghorn then remarks coolly.
“No, no, I know, I know, sir. But it's chafing and galling—it's—it's worse than your smattering chattering Magpie of a grandmother,” to the imperturbable Judy, who only looks at the fire, “to know he has got what's wanted, and won't give it up. He, not to give it up! He! A. vagabond! But never mind, sir, never mind. At the most, he has only his own way for a little while. I have him periodically in a vice. I'll twist him, sir. I'll screw him, sir. If he won't do it with a good grace, I'll make him do it with a bad one, sir!—Now, my dear Mr. George,” says Grandfather Smallweed, winking at the lawyer hideously, as he releases him, “I am ready for your kind assistance, my excellent friend!”
Mr. Tulkinghorn, with some shadowy sign of amusement manifesting itself through his self-possession, stands on the hearth-rug with his back to the fire, watching the disappearance of Mr. Smallweed, and acknowledging the trooper's parting salute with one slight nod.
It is more difficult to get rid of the old gentleman, Mr. George finds,
