I was thinking about Mr Leslie just then.”
Volume One – Chapter Twelve.
Uncle Luke’s Spare Cash
“Late again,” said old Crampton, as Harry Vine entered the office.
“How I do hate the sight of that man’s nose!” said the young man; and he stared hard, as if forced by some attraction.
The old clerk frowned, and felt annoyed. “I beg pardon,” he said.
“Granted,” said Harry, coolly.
“I said I beg pardon, Mr Harry Vine.”
“I heard you.”
“But I thought you spoke.”
“No,” grumbled Harry; “I didn’t speak.”
“Then I will,” said old Crampton merrily. “Good morning, Mr Harry Vine,” and he rattled the big ruler by his desk.
“Eh? oh, yes, I see. Didn’t say it as I came in. Good morning, Mr Crampton.”
“Lesson for the proud young upstart in good behaviour,” grumbled old Crampton.
“Bother him!” muttered Harry, as he took his place at his desk, opened a big account book Crampton placed before him, with some amounts to transfer from one that was smaller, and began writing.
But as he wrote, the figures seemed to join hands and dance before him; then his pen ceased to form others, and an imaginary picture painted itself on the delicately tinted blue paper with its red lines – a pleasant landscape in fair France with sunny hill-sides on which ranged in rows were carefully cultured vines. To the north and east were softened bosky woods, and dominating all, one of those antique castellated chateaus, with pepper-box towers and gilded vanes, such as he had seen in pictures or read of in some books.
“If I only had the money,” thought Harry, as he entered a sum similar to that which Pradelle had named. “He knows all these things. He has good advice from friends, and if we won – Hah!”
The chateau rose before his eyes again, bathed in sunshine. Then he pictured the terrace overlooking the vineyards – a grey old stone terrace, with many seats and sheltering trees, and along that terrace walked just such a maiden as Aunt Marguerite had described.
Scratch! scratch! scratch! scratch! His pen and Crampton’s pen; and he had no money, and Pradelle’s project to borrow as he had suggested was absurd.
Ah, if he only had eighty-one pounds ten shillings and sixpence! the sum he now placed in neat figures in their appropriate columns.
Old Crampton tilted back his tall stool, swung himself round, and lowered himself to the ground. Then crossing the office, he went into Van Heldre’s private room, and there was the rattle of a key, a creaking hinge, as an iron door was swung open; and directly after the old man returned.
Harry Vine could not see his hands, and he did not raise his eyes to watch the old clerk, but in the imagination which so readily pictured the chateau that was not in Spain, he seemed to see as he heard every movement of the fat, white fingers, when a canvas bag was clumped down on the mahogany desk, the string untied, and a little heap of coins were poured out. Then followed the scratching of those coins upon the mahogany, as they were counted, ranged in little piles, and finally, after an entry had been checked, they were replaced in the bag, which the old man bore back into the safe in the private room.
“Fifty or a hundred pounds,” said Harry to himself, as a curious sensation of heat came into his cheeks, to balance which there seemed to be a peculiarly cold thrill running up his spine, to the nape of his neck. “Anybody at home?”
“Yes, sir; here we are, hard at work.” Harry had looked up sharply to see Uncle Luke standing in the opening, a grim-looking grey figure in his old Norfolk jacket and straw hat, one hand resting on his heavy stick, the other carrying a battered fish-basket. The old man’s face was in shadow, for the sunshine streamed in behind him, but there was plenty of light to display his grim, sardonic features, as, after a short nod to Crampton, he gazed from under his shaggy brows piercingly at his nephew.
“Well, quill-driver,” he said, sneeringly; “doing something useful at last?”
“Morning, uncle,” said Harry shortly; and he muttered to himself, “I should like to throw the ledger at him.”
“Hope he’s a good boy, hey?”
“Oh, he’s getting on, Mr Luke Vine – slowly,” said Crampton unwillingly. “He’ll do better by and by.”
A sharp remark was on Harry’s lips, but he checked it for a particular reason. Uncle Luke might have the money he wanted.
“Time he did,” said the old man. “Look here, boy,” he continued, with galling, sneering tone in his voice. “Go and tell your master I want to see him.”
Harry drew a long breath, and his teeth gritted together.
“I caught a splendid conger this morning,” continued Uncle Luke, giving his basket a swing, “and I’ve brought your master half.”
“My master!” muttered Harry. “Like conger-pie, boy?”
“No,” said Harry, shortly. “More nice than wise,” said Uncle Luke. “Always were. There, be quick. I want to see your master.”
“To see my master,” thought Harry, with a strange feeling of exasperation in his breast as he looked up at Crampton.
Crampton was looking up at him with eyes which said very clearly, “Well, why don’t you go?”
“They’ll make me an errand-boy next,” said the young man to himself, as, after twisting his locket round and round like a firework, he swung himself down, “and want me to clean the knives and boots and shoes.”
“Tell him I’m in a hurry,” said Uncle Luke, as Harry reached the door which led into the private house along a passage built and covered with glass, by one side of what was originally a garden.
“Ah,” said Uncle Luke, going closer to old Crampton’s desk, and taking down from where it rested on two brass hooks, the heavy ebony ruler. “Nice bit o’ wood that.”
“Yes, sir,” said the old clerk, in the fidgety way of a workman who objects to have his tools touched.
“Pretty weighty,” continued Uncle Luke, balancing it in his hand. “Give a man a pretty good topper that, eh?”
“Yes, Mr Luke Vine. – I should like to give him one with it,” thought Crampton.
“Do for a constable’s staff, or to kill burglars, eh?”
“Capitally, sir.”
“Hah! You don’t get burglars here, though, do you?”
“No, sir; never had any yet.”
“Good job too,” said Uncle Luke, putting the ruler back in its place, greatly to Crampton’s relief. “Rather an awkward cub to lick into shape, my nephew, eh?”
“Rather, sir.”
“Well,
