“Get Gregg!” repeated my grandfather.
“I tell you, he will be gone to his office,” reiterated Adam.
“And I tell ye, he's takin' his smoke,” retorted the old man.
“Very well, then,” cried my uncle, getting to his feet with some alacrity, as upon a sudden change of thought, “I will get him myself.”
“Ye will not!” cried my grandfather. “Ye will sit there upon your hinderland.”
“Then how the devil am I to get him?” my uncle broke forth, with not unnatural petulance.
My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at his son with the malice of a schoolboy; then he rang the bell.
“Take the garden key,” said Uncle Adam to the servant; “go over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is there (he generally sits under the red hawthorn), give him old Mr. Loudon's compliments, and will he step in here for a moment?”
“Mr. Gregg the lawyer!” At once I understood (what had been puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather and the alarm of my poor uncle: the stonemason's will, it was supposed, hung trembling in the balance.
“Look here, grandfather,” I said, “I didn't want any of this. All I wanted was a loan of, say, two hundred pounds. I can take care of myself; I have prospects and opportunities, good friends in the States———”
The old man waved me down. “It's me that speaks here,” he said curtly; and we waited the coming of the lawyer in a triple silence. He appeared at last, the maid ushering him in—a spectacled, dry, but not ungenial looking man.
“Here, Gregg,” cried my grandfather. “Just a question: What has Aadam got to do with my will?”
