He stared a while in virulent silence; and
then "Get Gregg!" said he.
The effect of these words was very visible. "He will
be gone to his office," stammered my uncle.
"Get Gregg!" repeated my grandfather.
"I tell you, he will be gone to his office," reiterated
Adam.
"And I tell ye, he's takin' his smoke," retorted the
old man.
"Very well, then," cried my uncle, getting to his feet
with some alacrity, as upon a sudden change of thought,
"I will get him myself"
"Ye will not!" cried my grandfather. "Ye will sit
there upon your hinderland."
"Then how the devil am I to get him?" my uncle broke
forth, with not unnatural petulance.
My grandfather (having no possible answer) grinned at
his son with the malice of a schoolboy; then he rang
the bell.
"Take the garden key," said Uncle Adam to the servant;
"go over to the garden, and if Mr. Gregg the lawyer is
there (he generally sits under the red hawthorn), give
him old Mr. Loudon's compliments, and will he step in
here for a moment?"
"Mr. Gregg the lawyer!" At once I understood (what had
been puzzling me) the significance of my grandfather
and the alarm of my poor uncle: the stonemason's will,
it was supposed, hung trembling in the balance.
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