He was clean-shaven, and his face was refined and gentle.
To me he was kindness itself. He was in the habit of driving two or
three times a year to villages and solitary farm-houses to collect
his debts, and, to my great delight, he used to take me with him.
We were out all day. His creditors were by no means punctual: they
reckoned on him with assurance. This is what generally happened.
Uncle draws up at the front garden gate and gets out: I hold the
reins. Blacksmith, in debt something like 15 pounds for smithery
coal, comes from his forge at the side of the house to meet him.
"Ah, Mr. Lovell, I'm glad to see you: how's the missus and the
children? What weather it is!"
"I suppose you guess, Master Fitchew, what I've come about: you've
had this bill twice--I send my bills out only once a year--and
you've not paid a penny."
Fitchew looks on the ground, and gives his head a shake on one side
as if he were mortified beyond measure.
"I know it, Mr. Lovell, nobody can be more vexed than I am, but I
can't get nothing out of the farmers. Last year was an awful year
for them."
Uncle tries with all his might to look severe, but does not succeed.
"You've told me that tale every time I've called for twenty years
past: now mind, I'm not going to be humbugged any longer.
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