Jeminy knocked the ashes out
of his pipe, and taking from his desk a bundle of papers, began to
correct his pupils' exercises. He was still engaged at this task when
Mr. Tomkins came to call.
"A fine evening," said Mr. Tomkins from the doorway.
"Come in, William," cried Mr. Jeminy, "come in. A fine evening,
indeed. Well, this is very nice, I must say."
Mr. Tomkins was older than Mr. Jeminy. His once great frame was dried
and bent; his face was lined with a thousand wrinkles, and his lips
were drawn tight under the nose, until nose and chin almost met. But
his eyes were bright and active. Now he sat in Mr. Jeminy's study, his
large, knobbly hands, brown and withered as leaves in autumn, grasping
his hat.
"Another year, Jeminy," he said, in a voice shrill with age, "another
year. Time to shingle old man Crabbe's roof again. I'm spry yet."
And resting a lean finger alongside his nose, he gave sound to a laugh
like a peal of broken bells.
In his old age Mr. Tomkins was still agile; he crawled out on a roof,
ripped up rotted shingles, and put down new ones in their place.
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