“I am only sorry you did not come to me at first,” said Uncle Adam.  “I take the liberty to say it would have been more decent.”

“I think so too, Uncle Adam,” I replied; “but you must bear in mind I was ignorant in what light you might regard my application.”

“I hope I would never turn my back on my own flesh and blood,” he returned with emphasis; but to my anxious ear, with more of temper than affection.  “I could never forget you were my sister’s son.  I regard this as a manifest duty.  I have no choice but to accept the entire responsibility of the position you have made.”

I did not know what else to do but murmur “thank you.”

“Yes,” he pursued, “and there is something providential in the circumstance that you come at the right time.  In my old firm there is a vacancy; they call themselves Italian Warehousemen now,” he continued, regarding me with a twinkle of humour; “so you may think yourself in luck:  we were only grocers in my day.  I shall place you there to-morrow.”

“Stop a moment, Uncle Adam,” I broke in.  “This is not at all what I am asking.  I ask you to pay Pinkerton, who is a poor man.  I ask you to clear my feet of debt, not to arrange my life or any part of it.”

“If I wished to be harsh, I might remind you that beggars cannot be choosers,” said my uncle; “and as to managing your life, you have tried your own way already, and you see what you have made of it.  You must now accept the guidance of those older and (whatever you may think of it) wiser than yourself.  All these schemes of your friend (of whom I know nothing, by the by) and talk of openings in the West, I simply disregard.  I have no idea whatever of your going troking across a continent on a wild-goose chase.  In this situation, which I am fortunately able to place at your disposal, and which many a well-conducted young man would be glad to jump at, you will receive, to begin with, eighteen shillings a week.”

“Eighteen shillings a week!” I cried.  “Why, my poor friend gave me more than that for nothing!”

“And I think it is this very friend you are now trying to repay?” observed my uncle, with an air of one advancing a strong argument.

“Aadam!” said my grandfather.

“I’m vexed you should be present at this business,” quoth Uncle Adam, swinging rather obsequiously towards the stonemason; “but I must remind you it is of your own seeking.”

“Aadam!” repeated the old man.

“Well, sir, I am listening,” says my uncle.

My grandfather took a puff or two in silence; and then, “Ye’re makin’ an awfu’ poor appearance, Aadam,” said he.

My uncle visibly reared at the affront.  “I’m sorry you should think so,” said he, “and still more sorry you should say so before present company.”

“A believe that; A ken that, Aadam,” returned old Loudon, dryly; “and the curiis thing is, I’m no very carin’.  See here, ma man,” he continued, addressing himself to me.  “A’m your grandfaither, amn’t I not?  Never you mind what Aadam says.  A’ll see justice din ye.  A’m rich.”