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and some resentful opinion that it is time that he went。
“Now； if everybody has done；” says Judy； completing her
preparations； “I’ll have that girl in to her tea。 She would never
leave off； if she took it by herself in the kitchen。”
Charley is accordingly introduced； and； under a heavy fire of
eyes； sits down to her basin and a Druidical ruin of bread and
butter。 In the active superintendence of this young person； Judy
Smallweed appears to attain a perfectly geological age； and to date
from the remotest periods。 Her systematic manner of flying at her
and pouncing on her； with or without pretence； whether or no； is
wonderful； evincing an accomplishment in the art of girl…driving；
seldom reached by the oldest practitioners。
“Now； don’t stare about you all the afternoon；” cried Judy；
shaking her head and stamping her foot as she happens to catch
the glance which has been previously sounding the basin of tea；
“but take your victuals and get back to your work。”
“Yes； miss；” says Charley。
“Don’t say yes；” returns Miss Smallweed； “for I know what you
girls are。 Do it without saying it； and then I may begin to believe
you。”
Charley swallows a great gulp of tea in token of submission； and
so disperses the Druidical ruins that Miss Smallweed charges her
not to gormandise； which； “in you girls；” she observes； is
disgusting。 Charley might find some more difficulty in meeting her
views on the general subject of girls； but for a knock at the door。
“See who it is； and don’t chew when you open it！” cries Judy。
The object of her attentions withdrawing for the purpose； Miss
Smallweed takes that opportunity of jumbling the remainder of
the bread and butter together； and launching two or three dirty
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teacups into the ebb…tide of the basin of tea； as a hint that she
considers the eating and drinking terminated。
“Now！ Who is it； and what’s wanted？” says the snappish Judy。
It is one “Mr George；” it appears。 Without other announcement
or ceremony； Mr George walks in。
“Whew！” says Mr George。 “You are hot here。 Always a fire； eh？
Well！ Perhaps you do right to get used to one。” Mr George makes
the latter remark to himself； as he nods to Grandfather
Smallweed。
“Ho！ It’s you！” cries the old gentleman。 “How de do？ How de
do？”
“Middling；” replies Mr George； taking a chair。 “Your grand…
daughter I have had the honour of seeing before： my service to
you； miss。”
“This is my grandson；” says Grandfather Smallweed。 “You
ha’n’t seen him before。 He is in the law； and not much at home。”
“My service to him； too！ He is like his sister。 He is very like his
sister。 He is devilish like his sister；” says Mr George； laying a great
and not altogether complimentary stress on his last adjective。
“And how does the world use you； Mr George？” Grandfather
Smallweed inquires； slowly rubbing his legs。
“Pretty much as usual。 Like a football。”
He is a swarthy browned man of fifty； well made； and good…
looking； with crisp dark hair； bright eyes； and a broad chest。 His
sinewy and powerful hands； as sunburnt as his face； have
evidently been used to a pretty rough life。 What is curious about
him is； that he sits forward on his chair as if he were； from long
habit； allowing space for some dress or accoutrements that he has
altogether laid aside。 His step too is measured and heavy； and
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would go well with a weighty clash and jingle of spurs。 He is close…
shaved now； but his mouth is set as if his upper lip had been for
years familiar with a great moustache； and his manner of
occasionally laying the open palm of his broad brown hand upon
it； is to the same effect。 Altogether； one might guess Mr George to
have been a trooper once upon a time。
A special contrast Mr George makes to the Smallweed family。
Trooper was never yet billeted upon a household more unlike him。
It is a broadsword to an oyster knife。 His developed figure； and
their stunted forms； his large manner； filling any amount of room；
and their little narrow pinched ways； his sounding voice； and their
sharp spare tones； are in the strongest and the strangest
opposition。 As he sits in the middle of the grim parlour； leaning a
little forward； with his hands upon his thighs； and his elbows
squared； he looks as though； if remained there long； he would
absorb into himself the whole family and the whole four…roomed
house； extra little back…kitchen and all。
“Do you rub your legs to rub life into ’em？” he asks of
Grandfather Swallweed； after looking round the room。
“Why； it’s partly a habit； Mr George； and—yes—it partly helps
the circulation；” he replies。
“The cir…cu…la…tion！” repeats Mr George； folding his arms upon
his chest； and seeming to become two sizes larger。 “Not much of
that； I should think。”
“Truly I’m old； Mr George；” says Grandfather Smallweed。 “But
I can carry my years。 I’m older than her；” nodding at his wife； “and
see what she is！—You’re a brimstone chatterer！” with a sudden
revival of his late hostility。
“Unlucky old soul！” says Mr George； turning his head in that
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direction。 “Don’t scold the old lady。 Look at her here； with her
poor cap half off her head； and her poor chair all in a muddle。
Hold up； ma’am。 That’s better。 There we are！ Think of your
mother； Mr Smallweed；” says Mr George； coming back to his seat
from assisting her； “if your wife an’t enough。”
“I suppose you were an excellent son； Mr George；” the old man
hints； with a leer。
The colour of Mr George’s face rather deepens； as he replies；
“Why no。 I wasn’t。”
“I am astonished at it。”
“So am I。 I ought to have been a good son； and I think I meant
to have been one。 But I wasn’t。 I was a thundering bad son； that’s
the long and the short of it； and never was a credit to anybody。”
“Surprising！” cries the old man。
“However；” Mr George resumes； “the less said about it the
better now。 Come！ You know the agreement。 Always a pipe out of
the two months’ interest！ （Bosh！ It’s all correct。 You needn’t be
afraid to order the pipe。 Here’s the new bill； and here’s the two
months’ interest…money； and a devil…and…all of a scrape it is to get
it together in my business）。”
Mr George sits； with his arms folded； consuming the family and
the parlour； while Grandfather Smallweed is assi