“Wot are you talking about?” ses Henery
Walker. “He was my great-uncle!”
“Have it your own way, Henery,” ses Bob
Pretty; “on’y, if you asked me, I should
say that he was my wife’s grandfather.”
“Your—wife’s—grandfather?”
ses Henery Walker, in a choking voice.
He stood staring at ’im, stupid-like, for a
minute or two, but he couldn’t get out another
word. In a flash ’e saw ’ow he’d
been done, and how Bob Pretty ’ad been deceiving
’im all along, and the idea that he ’ad
arf ruined himself keeping Mrs. Pretty’s grandfather
for ’em pretty near sent ’im out of his
mind.
[Illustration: “He slammed the door in
Bob Pretty’s face.”]
“But how is it ’is name was Josiah Walker,
same as Henery’s great-uncle?” ses Bill
Chambers, who ’ad been crowding round with the
others. “Tell me that!”
“He ’ad a fancy for it,” ses Bob
Pretty, “and being a ’armless amusement
we let him ’ave his own way. I told Henery
Walker over and over ag’in that it wasn’t
his uncle, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’ve
got witnesses to it. Wot did you say, Henery?”
Henery Walker drew ’imself up as tall as he
could and stared at him. Twice he opened ’is
mouth to speak but couldn’t, and then he made
a odd sort o’ choking noise in his throat, and
slammed the door in Bob Pretty’s face.
[Illustration: A LOVE-KNOT]
Mr. Nathaniel Clark and Mrs. Bowman had just finished
their third game of draughts. It had been a difficult
game for Mr. Clark, the lady’s mind having been
so occupied with other matters that he had had great
difficulty in losing. Indeed, it was only by pushing
an occasional piece of his own off the board that
he had succeeded.
“A penny for your thoughts, Amelia,” he
said, at last.
Mrs. Bowman smiled faintly. “They were
far away,” she confessed.
Mr. Clark assumed an expression of great solemnity;
allusions of this kind to the late Mr. Bowman were
only too frequent. He was fortunate when they
did not grow into reminiscences of a career too blameless
for successful imitation.
“I suppose,” said the widow, slowly—“I
suppose I ought to tell you: I’ve had a
letter.”
Mr. Clark’s face relaxed.
“It took me back to the old scenes,” continued
Mrs. Bowman, dreamily. “I have never kept
anything back from you, Nathaniel. I told you
all about the first man I ever thought anything of—Charlie
Tucker?”
Mr. Clark cleared his throat. “You did,”
he said, a trifle hoarsely. “More than
once.”
“I’ve just had a letter from him,”
said Mrs. Bowman, simpering. “Fancy, after
all these years! Poor fellow, he has only just
heard of my husband’s death, and, by the way
he writes—”
She broke off and drummed nervously on the table.
“He hasn’t heard about me, you mean,”
said Mr. Clark, after waiting to give her time to
finish.
