chairs, one on each side of the fireplace, the superannuated Mr. and Mrs. Smallweed while away the rosy hours. On the stove are a couple of trivets for the pots and kettles which it is Grandfather Smallweed’s usual occupation to watch, and projecting from the chimneypiece between them is a sort of brass gallows for roasting, which he also superintends when it is in action. Under the venerable Mr. Smallweed’s seat and guarded by his spindle legs is a drawer in his chair, reported to contain property to a fabulous amount. Beside him is a spare cushion with which he is always provided in order that he may have something to throw at the venerable partner of his respected age whenever she makes an allusion to money—a subject on which he is particularly sensitive.
“And where’s Bart?” Grandfather Smallweed inquires of Judy, Bart’s twin sister.
“He an’t come in yet,” says Judy.
“It’s his teatime, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“How much do you mean to say it wants then?”
“Ten minutes.”
“Hey?”
“Ten minutes.” (Loud on the part of Judy.)
“Ho!” says Grandfather Smallweed. “Ten minutes.”
Grandmother Smallweed, who has been mumbling and shaking her head at the trivets, hearing figures mentioned, connects them with money and screeches like a horrible old parrot without any plumage, “Ten ten-pound notes!”