<h2><SPAN name="page183"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>XXI.</h2>
<p><span class="smcap">Twice</span> or thrice more Uncle Isaac
came to supper, though he was dimly aware that his visits were in
some way less successful than had been their wont; insomuch that
he took nothing home with him for breakfast, nor even went so far
as to hint his desire, in Butson’s presence. For
Butson welcomed him not at all, and his manner grew shorter at
each meeting, and this with full intent. Because Mr. Butson
perceived that, as first step toward being master in his own
house, he must get rid of Uncle Isaac.</p>
<p>Mere curtness of manner—even gruffness—would never
drive Uncle Isaac from his prey. It operated only to make
him more voluble, more strenuously blandiloquent. Till one
evening after supper, as he lay back in his chair sucking noisily
at lips and teeth, he resolved to venture a step in the matter of
the lapsed grants in aid of breakfast. Johnny and Bessy
were out of the house (they went out more often now), Nan was
serving in the shop, and Mr. Butson sat with his back partly
turned, and smoked, in uncivil silence.</p>
<p>“Ah!” quoth Uncle Isaac, with a side-glance at his
<SPAN name="page184"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
184</span>ungracious host, “that’s a uncommon nice
tin o’ spiced beef we just ’ad a cut auf.
Uncommon.”</p>
<p>Mr. Butson made no answer.</p>
<p>“It’s a great credit to your business instinks,
that tin o’ spiced beef. I almost wish I ’ad
took another slice or so, now.” As a fact, Uncle
Isaac had not been offered a further helping—perhaps
because he had already taken three. “I almost wish I
’ad. . . . Never mind. It’ll do another
time. . . . Come now, I’ve ’alf a mind to get
Nan to wrop it up for my breakfast!”</p>
<p>The suggestion was made as of a novel and striking idea, but
Mr. Butson showed no flash of enthusiasm. He swung his
chair slowly round on one leg till he faced Uncle Isaac.
Then he put his cigar carefully on the mantelpiece and
said:—“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy!”</p>
<p>The sudden severity of the voice drew Uncle Isaac’s eyes
from the ceiling and his feet from under the table
simultaneously.</p>
<p>“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy! You’re bin so
very kind as to celebrate this ’ere weddin’ o’
mine with four good ’eavy suppers an’ about a pint
o’ whisky at my expense. I’m very grateful for
that, an’ I won’t trouble you no more.
See? This is the end o’ the celebration.
I’m goin’ to eat my supper in future, me an’ my
wife, <SPAN name="page185"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
185</span>without your assistance; an’ breakfast too.
Understand?”</p>
<p>Uncle Isaac’s feet retreated under his chair, and his
eyes advanced to an alarming protrusion.</p>
<p>“See what I mean?” Butson went on, with growing
offence in his voice. “Jest you buy yer own suppers
an’ eat ’em at ’ome, or else go
without.”</p>
<p>Speech was denied Uncle Isaac. He blinked and
choked. What did it mean? Was it a dream? Was
he Uncle Isaac, respected and deferred to, the man of judgment
and influence, and was he told, thus outrageously, to buy his own
supper?</p>
<p>“Yus,” said Butson, as though in answer to his
thoughts. “I mean it!”</p>
<p>Whereat Uncle Isaac, with a gasp and a roll of the eyes, found
his tongue. “Mr. Butson!” he said, in a voice
of dignified but grieved surprise. “Mr. Butson!
I—I think I must ’a ’eard wrong.
Otherwise I might put it as you may be sorry for sich
words.”</p>
<p>“P’raps,” remarked Butson, cynically
laconic.</p>
<p>“In which case,” replied Uncle Isaac the adroit,
“it is freely took as auffered, an’ nothin’
more need be said atween of friends after sich ’ansome
apologies give an’ took, and reconciliation resooms its
’armony accordin’.”</p>
<p>Butson glared. “G-r-r-r!” he growled.
“Apologies! What I say I mean. You’ve
done very well at cheap <SPAN name="page186"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>suppers an’ what not
’ere, and to-night you’ve ’ad yer last.
<i>I’m</i> master ’ere now. An’ you can
git out as soon as ye like.”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“Git out. Y’ought to be ashamed o’
yourself,” cried the disinterested Butson indignantly,
“comin cadgin’ suppers!”</p>
<p>“Git out? Me? Suppers? Why,
’Enery Butson, I brought you ’ere out o’ the
gutter! Out o’ the gutter, an’ fed
ye!”</p>
<p>“Ah—a lot you fed me, and mighty anxious to do it,
wasn’t ye? You clear out o’
’ere!”</p>
<p>“O I’ll go! an’ I’ll see about
countermandin’ a paper or two ’fore I go to bed,
too. An’ my small property—”</p>
<p>“Yer small property!” put in Butson, with slow
scorn. “Yer small property! Where is it?
What is it? . . . Want to know my opinion o’
you? You’re a old ’umbug. That’s
what you are. A old ’umbug.”</p>
<p>Uncle Isaac grew furious and purple.
“’Umbug?” he said.
“’Umbug? Them words to me, as saved ye from
starvation? ’Umbug yerself. You an’ yer
connexions, an’ mayors an’ what not! Why, ye
dunno yer own trade! I wouldn’t trust ye to grind a
cawfy-mill!”</p>
<p>With that the shop-door opened, and Nan stood between
them. She had heard high voices, and at the first cessation
of custom she came to see. “Uncle! <SPAN name="page187"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
187</span>Henry! What is it?” she asked, with alarm
in her face.</p>
<p>“This is what it is,” said Butson, now near as
purple as Uncle Isaac. “This ’ere uncle
o’ yours, Mrs. Butson, or whatever ’e is, ain’t
comin’ ’ere cadgin’ ’is grub any more;
not so long as I got a say in it ’e ain’t.
See? So now you better say good-bye to ’im if ye want
to, ’cos ’e’s goin’, quick.”</p>
<p>“O yus,” said Uncle Isaac, speaking to his niece,
but glaring at Butson, “I’m goin’, Mrs.
Butson. An’ much better may you be for it.
After what I done for you an’ all. Sort o’
gratitood I might ’a’ expected!”</p>
<p>“O uncle!” exclaimed the distracted Nan.
“Why, whatever’s the matter? I know
you’ve always been very good. Henry!
What’s it all about?”</p>
<p>“About puttin’ a end to this ’ere
bloodsuckin’, that’s all!”</p>
<p>“Bloodsuckin’!” exclaimed Uncle Isaac.
“Yus, you know somethin’ about that! Pity ye
don’t know yer trade ’alf as well! Then
p’raps you’d earn yer livin’, ’stead
o’ spongin’ on people an’ deloodin’ a
fool of a woman to keep ye lazy!”</p>
<p>“Go on! go on!” commanded Butson, with increasing
wrath.</p>
<p>“No, uncle, stop a minute,” entreated poor
Nan. “Don’t, Henry, don’t let’s
quarrel!”</p>
<p>“Go on!”</p>
<p><SPAN name="page188"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
188</span>“O yus, I’ll go. P’raps
you’d like to call the p’lice?”</p>
<p>Butson caught breath at the word, and something crossed his
face like a chance reflection from a white screen. But he
repeated, “Go on!” with a gesture toward the
door.</p>
<p>“Yus, yus!” said Uncle Isaac, with his hat on his
head. “I’m goin’! An’ not
sorry neither. Ho! You’re a bright sort for a
local p’rentis, you are!” (Uncle Isaac may have
been at odds with the phrase <i>in loco parentis</i>).
“A uncommon neat pattern!” And he walked out
into the dark street, a small model of offended dignity.</p>
<div class="gapspace"> </div>
<p>“O Henry,” cried Nan in tears, “what have
you done?”</p>
<p>“I’ve done,” answered Butson, reaching for
his cigar, “jist what I meant to do. That’s
all. ’Cos it suited me. See?”</p>
<p>Nan felt the coarse overbearance of his stare, and dropped her
gaze beneath it. And with that misgiving fell upon her: the
shadow her punishment flung before it.</p>
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