John's Ernest was at the steering-wheel. Councillor Batchgrew stood
still with his mouth open to watch the manoeuvre.
"This is John's Ernest--my son John's eldest. Happen ye know him?"
said Batchgrew to Rachel. "He's a good lad."
John's Ernest, a pleasant-featured young man of twenty-five, blushed
and raised his hat. And Rachel also blushed as she nodded. It was
astonishing that old Batchgrew could have a grandson with so honest
a look on his face, but she had heard that son John, too, was very
different from his father.
"Dunna go till I've seen thee," said Mr. Batchgrew to John's Ernest,
and to Rachel, "Come in, Mrs. Fores."
John's Ernest silenced the car, and extricated himself with practised
rapidity from the driver's seat.
"Where are ye going?" asked his grandfather.
"I'm going to lock the garage doors," said John's Ernest, with a
humorous smile which seemed to add, "Unless you'd like them to be left
open all Saturday afternoon." Rachel vividly remembered the playful,
boyish voice which she had heard one night when the motor-car had
called to take Mr. Batchgrew to Red Cow.
The councillor nodded.
In the small, untidy, disagreeable, malodorous shop, which in about
half a century had scarcely altered its aspect, Thomas Batchgrew
directed Rachel to a corner behind the counter and behind a partition,
with a view of a fragment of the window.
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