in the billiard-room of the Eastry Arms. But my uncle, for the most part, spent his evenings at home. When first he arrived in Wimblehurst I think he had spread his effect of abounding ideas and enterprise rather too aggressively; and Wimblehurst, after a temporary subjugation, had rebelled and done its best to make a butt of him. His appearance in a public-house led to a pause in any conversation that was going on.
"Come to tell us about everything, Mr. Pond'revo?" some one would say politely.
"You wait," my uncle used to answer, disconcerted, and sulk for the rest of his visit.
Or some one with an immense air of innocence would remark to the world generally, "They're talkin' of rebuildm' Wimblehurst all over again, I'm told. Anybody heard anything of it? Going to make it a regular smart-goin', enterprisin' place—kind of Crystal Pallas."
"Earthquake and a pestilence before you get that," my uncle would mutter, to the infinite delight of every one, and add something inaudible about "Cold Mutton Fat." . . .
We were torn apart by a financial accident to my uncle of which I did not at first grasp the full bearings. He had developed what I regarded as an innocent intellectual recreation which he called stock-market meteorology. I think he got the idea from the use of curves in the graphic presentation of associated variations that he saw me plotting. He secured some of my