It was queer, but they seemed to be easy people to get on with anyhow.

They were still picking little ripples and giggles of mirth from the

idea of Mr. Polly dandling Aunt Larkins when Mr. Johnson, who had

answered the door, ushered in a stooping figure, who was at once

hailed by Mrs. Johnson as "Why! Uncle Pentstemon!" Uncle Pentstemon

was rather a shock. His was an aged rather than venerable figure; Time

had removed the hair from the top of his head and distributed a small

dividend of the plunder in little bunches carelessly and impartially

over the rest of his features; he was dressed in a very big old frock

coat and a long cylindrical top hat, which he had kept on; he was very

much bent, and he carried a rush basket from which protruded coy

intimations of the lettuces and onions he had brought to grace the

occasion. He hobbled into the room, resisting the efforts of Johnson

to divest him of his various encumbrances, halted and surveyed the

company with an expression of profound hostility, breathing hard.

Recognition quickened in his eyes.

"You here," he said to Aunt Larkins and then; "You would be....

These your gals?"

"They are," said Aunt Larkins, "and better gals----"

"That Annie?" asked Uncle Pentstemon, pointing a horny thumb-nail.

"Fancy your remembering her name!"

The History of Mr Polly