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.
Mr George, who has put aside his pipe and sits with an arm on his chair-back, beats a tattoo on the ground with his right foot, as if he were not particularly pleased with the turn the conversation has taken.
“But to pass from one subject to another,” resumes Mr Smallweed. “To promote the conversation, as a joker might say. To pass, Mr George, from the ensign to the captain.”
“What are you up to, now?” asks Mr George, pausing with a frown in stroking the recollection of his moustache. “What captain?”
“Our captain. The captain we know of. Captain Hawdon.”
“O! that’s it, is it?” says Mr George, with a low whistle, as he sees both grandfather and grand-daughter looking hard at him; “You are there! Well? What about it? Come, I won’t be smothered any more. Speak!”
“My dear friend,” returns the old man, “I was applied — Judy, shake me up a little! — I was applied to, yesterday, about the captain; and my opinion still is, that the captain is not dead.”
“Bosh!” observes Mr George.
“What was your remark, my dear friend?” inquires the old man with his hand to his ear.
“Bosh!”