"I think," said my uncle, "that George will find it more amusing to have a turn in the market-place than to sit here talking with us. There's a pair of stocks there, George—very interesting. Old-fashioned stocks."
"I don't mind sitting here," I said.
My uncle rose and in the most friendly way led me through the shop. He stood on his doorstep and jerked amiable directions to me.
"Ain't it sleepy, George, eh? There's the butcher's dog over there, asleep in the road—half an hour from midday! If the last Trump sounded I don't believe it would wake. Nobody would wake! The chaps up there in the churchyard—they'd just turn over and say; 'Naar—you don't catch us, you don't! See?' . . . Well, you'll find the stocks just round that corner."
He watched me out of sight.
So I never heard what they said about my father after all.
§6
When I returned, my uncle had in some remarkable way become larger and central. "Tha'chu, George?" he cried, when the shop-door bell sounded. "Come right through;" and I found him, as it were, in the chairman's place before the draped grate.
The three of them regarded me.
"We have been talking of making you a chemist, George," said my uncle.
My mother looked at me. "I had hoped," she said,
