“O I’ll go! an’ I’ll see about countermandin’ a paper or two ’fore I go to bed, too. An’ my small property—” “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.” 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!” 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! Henry! What is it?” she asked, with alarm in her face. “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.” “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!” “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?” “About puttin’ a end to this ’ere bloodsuckin’, that’s all!” “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!” “Go on! go on!” commanded Butson, with increasing wrath. “No, uncle, stop a minute,” entreated poor Nan. “Don’t, Henry, don’t let’s quarrel!” “Go on!” “O yus, I’ll go. P’raps you’d like to call the p’lice?” 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. “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 _in loco parentis_). “A uncommon neat pattern!” And he walked out into the dark street, a small model of offended dignity. * * * * * “O Henry,” cried Nan in tears, “what have you done?” “I’ve done,” answered Butson, reaching for his cigar, “jist what I meant to do. That’s all. ’Cos it suited me. See?” 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. XXII.