“My dear friend!  So happy in this meeting!  And this is your establishment?  It’s a delightful place.  It’s a picture!  You never find that anything goes off here accidentally, do you, my dear friend?” adds Grandfather Smallweed, very ill at ease.

“No, no.  No fear of that.”

“And your workman.  He—­Oh, dear me!—­he never lets anything off without meaning it, does he, my dear friend?”

“He has never hurt anybody but himself,” says Mr. George, smiling.

“But he might, you know.  He seems to have hurt himself a good deal, and he might hurt somebody else,” the old gentleman returns.  “He mightn’t mean it—­or he even might.  Mr. George, will you order him to leave his infernal fire-arms alone and go away?”

Obedient to a nod from the trooper, Phil retires, empty-handed, to the other end of the gallery.  Mr. Smallweed, reassured, falls to rubbing his legs.

“And you’re doing well, Mr. George?” he says to the trooper, squarely standing faced about towards him with his broadsword in his hand.  “You are prospering, please the Powers?”

Mr. George answers with a cool nod, adding, “Go on.  You have not come to say that, I know.”

“You are so sprightly, Mr. George,” returns the venerable grandfather.  “You are such good company.”

“Ha ha!  Go on!” says Mr. George.

“My dear friend!  But that sword looks awful gleaming and sharp.  It might cut somebody, by accident.  It makes me shiver, Mr. George.  Curse him!” says the excellent old gentleman apart to Judy as the trooper takes a step or two away to lay it aside.  “He owes me money, and might think of paying off old scores in this murdering place.  I wish your brimstone grandmother was here, and he’d shave her head off.”

Mr. George, returning, folds his arms, and looking down at the old man, sliding every moment lower and lower in his chair, says quietly, “Now for it!”

“Ho!” cries Mr. Smallweed, rubbing his hands with an artful chuckle.  “Yes.  Now for it.  Now for what, my dear friend?”

“For a pipe,” says Mr. George, who with great composure sets his chair in the chimney-corner, takes his pipe from the grate, fills it and lights it, and falls to smoking peacefully.

This tends to the discomfiture of Mr. Smallweed, who finds it so difficult to resume his object, whatever it may be, that he becomes exasperated and secretly claws the air with an impotent vindictiveness expressive of an intense desire to tear and rend the visage of Mr. George.  As the excellent old gentleman’s nails are long and leaden, and his hands lean and veinous, and his eyes green and watery; and, over and above this, as he continues, while he claws, to slide down in his chair and to collapse into a shapeless bundle, he becomes such a ghastly spectacle, even in the accustomed eyes of Judy, that that young virgin pounces at him with something more than the ardour of affection and so shakes him up and pats and pokes him in divers parts of his body, but particularly in that part which the science of self-defence would call his wind, that in his grievous distress he utters enforced sounds like a paviour’s rammer.