“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.