XIII

“This is Edgar’s legal nephew,” I reflected⁠—“mine in a manner; I must shake hands, and⁠—yes⁠—I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good understanding at the beginning.” I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said⁠—“How do you do, my dear?” He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend. “Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?” was my next essay at conversation. An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not “frame off” rewarded my perseverance. “Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred bulldog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be ganging?” he asked authoritatively. Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible; and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and replied⁠—“Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it? Mincing un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?” “I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, thinking him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness. “None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and continued his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and countenance (the