When Judy has by these means set him up again in his chair, with a white face and a frosty nose (but still clawing), she stretches out her weazen forefinger and gives Mr. George one poke in the back.  The trooper raising his head, she makes another poke at her esteemed grandfather, and having thus brought them together, stares rigidly at the fire.

“Aye, aye!  Ho, ho!  U—­u—­u—­ugh!” chatters Grandfather Smallweed, swallowing his rage.  “My dear friend!” (still clawing).

“I tell you what,” says Mr. George.  “If you want to converse with me, you must speak out.  I am one of the roughs, and I can’t go about and about.  I haven’t the art to do it.  I am not clever enough.  It don’t suit me.  When you go winding round and round me,” says the trooper, putting his pipe between his lips again, “damme, if I don’t feel as if I was being smothered!”

And he inflates his broad chest to its utmost extent as if to assure himself that he is not smothered yet.

“If you have come to give me a friendly call,” continues Mr. George, “I am obliged to you; how are you?  If you have come to see whether there’s any property on the premises, look about you; you are welcome.  If you want to out with something, out with it!”

The blooming Judy, without removing her gaze from the fire, gives her grandfather one ghostly poke.

“You see!  It’s her opinion too.  And why the devil that young woman won’t sit down like a Christian,” says Mr. George with his eyes musingly fixed on Judy, “I can’t comprehend.”

“She keeps at my side to attend to me, sir,” says Grandfather Smallweed.  “I am an old man, my dear Mr. George, and I need some attention.  I can carry my years; I am not a brimstone poll-parrot” (snarling and looking unconsciously for the cushion), “but I need attention, my dear friend.”

“Well!” returns the trooper, wheeling his chair to face the old man.  “Now then?”

“My friend in the city, Mr. George, has done a little business with a pupil of yours.”

“Has he?” says Mr. George.  “I am sorry to hear it.”

“Yes, sir.”  Grandfather Smallweed rubs his legs.  “He is a fine young soldier now, Mr. George, by the name of Carstone.  Friends came forward and paid it all up, honourable.”

“Did they?” returns Mr. George.  “Do you think your friend in the city would like a piece of advice?”

“I think he would, my dear friend.  From you.”

“I advise him, then, to do no more business in that quarter.  There’s no more to be got by it.  The young gentleman, to my knowledge, is brought to a dead halt.”

“No, no, my dear friend.  No, no, Mr. George.  No, no, no, sir,” remonstrates Grandfather Smallweed, cunningly rubbing his spare legs.  “Not quite a dead halt, I think.  He has good friends, and he is good for his pay, and he is good for the selling price of his commission, and he is good for his chance in a lawsuit, and he is good for his chance in a wife, and—­oh, do you know, Mr. George, I think my friend would consider the young gentleman good for something yet?” says Grandfather Smallweed, turning up his velvet cap and scratching his ear like a monkey.