"
"All right, Squire," said George, touching his red nightcap, "I'll be
off," and he started.
"George," halloaed his master after him, but George did not stop. He
had a trick of deafness when the Squire was calling, that is if he
wanted to go somewhere else.
"Confound you," roared the old gentleman, "why don't you stop when I
call you?"
This time George brought his long lank frame to a standstill.
"Beg pardon, Squire."
"Beg pardon, yes--you're always begging pardon. Look here, you had
better bring your wife and have dinner in the servants' hall to-day,
and drink a glass of port."
"Thank you, Squire," said George again, touching his red nightcap.
"And look here, George. Give me your hand, man. Here's a merry
Christmas to you. We've gone through some queerish times about this
place together, but now it almost looks as though we were going to end
our days in peace and plenty."
"Same to you, Squire, I'm sure, same to you," said George, pulling off
his cap. "Yes, yes, we've had some bad years, what with poor Mr. James
and that Quest and Cossey (he's the master varmint of the lot he is),
and the bad times, and Janter, and the Moat Farm and all. But, bless
you, Squire, now that there'll be some ready money and no debts, why,
if I don't make out somehow so that you all get a good living out of
the place I'm a Dutchman.
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