Twice or thrice more Uncle Isaac came to supper, though he was dimly aware that his visits were in some way less successful than had been their wont; insomuch that he took nothing home with him for breakfast, nor even went so far as to hint his desire, in Butson’s presence. For Butson welcomed him not at all, and his manner grew shorter at each meeting, and this with full intent. Because Mr. Butson perceived that, as first step toward being master in his own house, he must get rid of Uncle Isaac.

Mere curtness of manner—even gruffness—would never drive Uncle Isaac from his prey. It operated only to make him more voluble, more strenuously blandiloquent. Till one evening after supper, as he lay back in his chair sucking noisily at lips and teeth, he resolved to venture a step in the matter of the lapsed grants in aid of breakfast. Johnny and Bessy were out of the house (they went out more often now), Nan was serving in the shop, and Mr. Butson sat with his back partly turned, and smoked, in uncivil silence.

“Ah!” quoth Uncle Isaac, with a side-glance at his ungracious host, “that’s a uncommon nice tin o’ spiced beef we just ’ad a cut auf. Uncommon.”

Mr. Butson made no answer.

“It’s a great credit to your business instinks, that tin o’ spiced beef. I almost wish I ’ad took another slice or so, now.” As a fact, Uncle Isaac had not been offered a further helping—perhaps because he had already taken three. “I almost wish I ’ad. . . . Never mind. It’ll do another time. . . . Come now, I’ve ’alf a mind to get Nan to wrop it up for my breakfast!”

The suggestion was made as of a novel and striking idea, but Mr. Butson showed no flash of enthusiasm. He swung his chair slowly round on one leg till he faced Uncle Isaac. Then he put his cigar carefully on the mantelpiece and said:—“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy!”

The sudden severity of the voice drew Uncle Isaac’s eyes from the ceiling and his feet from under the table simultaneously.

“Look ’ere, Mr. Mundy! You’re bin so very kind as to celebrate this ’ere weddin’ o’ mine with four good ’eavy suppers an’ about a pint o’ whisky at my expense. I’m very grateful for that, an’ I won’t trouble you no more. See? This is the end o’ the celebration. I’m goin’ to eat my supper in future, me an’ my wife, without your assistance; an’ breakfast too. Understand?”

Uncle Isaac’s feet retreated under his chair, and his eyes advanced to an alarming protrusion.

“See what I mean?” Butson went on, with growing offence in his voice. “Jest you buy yer own suppers an’ eat ’em at ’ome, or else go without.”

Speech was denied Uncle Isaac. He blinked and choked. What did it mean? Was it a dream? Was he Uncle Isaac, respected and deferred to, the man of judgment and influence, and was he told, thus outrageously, to buy his own supper?

“Yus,” said Butson, as though in answer to his thoughts. “I mean it!”

Whereat Uncle Isaac, with a gasp and a roll of the eyes, found his tongue. “Mr. Butson!” he said, in a voice of dignified but grieved surprise. “Mr. Butson! I—I think I must ’a ’eard wrong. Otherwise I might put it as you may be sorry for sich words.”

“P’raps,” remarked Butson, cynically laconic.

“In which case,” replied Uncle Isaac the adroit, “it is freely took as auffered, an’ nothin’ more need be said atween of friends after sich ’ansome apologies give an’ took, and reconciliation resooms its ’armony accordin’.”

Butson glared. “G-r-r-r!” he growled. “Apologies! What I say I mean. You’ve done very well at cheap suppers an’ what not ’ere, and to-night you’ve ’ad yer last. I’m master ’ere now. An’ you can git out as soon as ye like.”

“What?”

“Git out. Y’ought to be ashamed o’ yourself,” cried the disinterested Butson indignantly, “comin cadgin’ suppers!”

“Git out? Me? Suppers? Why, ’Enery Butson, I brought you ’ere out o’ the gutter! Out o’ the gutter, an’ fed ye!”

“Ah—a lot you fed me, and mighty anxious to do it, wasn’t ye? You clear out o’ ’ere!”

“O I’ll go! an’ I’ll see about countermandin’ a paper or two ’fore I go to bed, too. An’ my small property—”

“Yer small property!” put in Butson, with slow scorn. “Yer small property! Where is it? What is it? . . . Want to know my opinion o’ you? You’re a old ’umbug. That’s what you are. A old ’umbug.”

Uncle Isaac grew furious and purple. “’Umbug?” he said. “’Umbug? Them words to me, as saved ye from starvation? ’Umbug yerself. You an’ yer connexions, an’ mayors an’ what not! Why, ye dunno yer own trade! I wouldn’t trust ye to grind a cawfy-mill!”

With that the shop-door opened, and Nan stood between them. She had heard high voices, and at the first cessation of custom she came to see. “Uncle! Henry! What is it?” she asked, with alarm in her face.

“This is what it is,” said Butson, now near as purple as Uncle Isaac. “This ’ere uncle o’ yours, Mrs. Butson, or whatever ’e is, ain’t comin’ ’ere cadgin’ ’is grub any more; not so long as I got a say in it ’e ain’t. See? So now you better say good-bye to ’im if ye want to, ’cos ’e’s goin’, quick.”

“O yus,” said Uncle Isaac, speaking to his niece, but glaring at Butson, “I’m goin’, Mrs. Butson. An’ much better may you be for it. After what I done for you an’ all. Sort o’ gratitood I might ’a’ expected!”

“O uncle!” exclaimed the distracted Nan. “Why, whatever’s the matter? I know you’ve always been very good. Henry! What’s it all about?”

“About puttin’ a end to this ’ere bloodsuckin’, that’s all!”

“Bloodsuckin’!” exclaimed Uncle Isaac. “Yus, you know somethin’ about that! Pity ye don’t know yer trade ’alf as well! Then p’raps you’d earn yer livin’, ’stead o’ spongin’ on people an’ deloodin’ a fool of a woman to keep ye lazy!”

“Go on! go on!” commanded Butson, with increasing wrath.

“No, uncle, stop a minute,” entreated poor Nan. “Don’t, Henry, don’t let’s quarrel!”

“Go on!”“O yus, I’ll go. P’raps you’d like to call the p’lice?”

Butson caught breath at the word, and something crossed his face like a chance reflection from a white screen. But he repeated, “Go on!” with a gesture toward the door.

“Yus, yus!” said Uncle Isaac, with his hat on his head. “I’m goin’! An’ not sorry neither. Ho! You’re a bright sort for a local p’rentis, you are!” (Uncle Isaac may have been at odds with the phrase in loco parentis). “A uncommon neat pattern!” And he walked out into the dark street, a small model of offended dignity.

“O Henry,” cried Nan in tears, “what have you done?”

“I’ve done,” answered Butson, reaching for his cigar, “jist what I meant to do. That’s all. ’Cos it suited me. See?”

Nan felt the coarse overbearance of his stare, and dropped her gaze beneath it. And with that misgiving fell upon her: the shadow her punishment flung before it.