This last was news to him.
"SHORN lamb, sir!" he cried gleefully, rubbing his palms together, his body tied into a double bow-knot.

"Gentle breezes; bread upon the waters! By jiminy, Mr.Rutter, if Mr.Temple could be born again--figuratively, sir--and I could walk in upon him as I once did, and find him at breakfast surrounded by all his comforts with Todd waiting upon him--a very good nigger is Todd, sir--an exCEPtionally good nigger--I'd--I'd--damn me, Mr.Rutter, I'd--well, sir, there's no word--but John Gadgem, sir--well, I'll be damned if he wouldn't--" and he began skipping about the room, both feet in the air, as if he was a boy of twenty instead of a thin, shambling, badly put together bill collector in an ill-fitting brown coat, a hat much the worse for wear, and a red cotton handkerchief addicted to weekly ablutions.
As for Harry the glad news had cleared out wide spaces before him, such as he had not looked through in years; leafy vistas, with glimpses of sunlit meadows; shadow-flecked paths leading to manor-houses with summer skies beyond.

He, too, was on his feet, walking restlessly up and down.
Pawson and Gadgem again put their heads together, Harry stopping to listen.

Such expressions as "Certainly," "I think I can": "Yes, of course it was there when I was last in his place," "Better see him first," caught his ear.
At last he could stand it no longer.

Dr.Teackle or no Dr.Teackle, he would go upstairs, open the door softly, and if his uncle was awake whisper the good news in his ear.