Part 28 (1/2)
MR. DENGATE IS INDIGNANT, AND DEXTER WANTS SOME ”WUMS.”
Mr Grayson was delighted when he heard the narrative from Helen.
”There! what did I tell you!” he cried. ”Proofs of my theory.”
”Do you think so, papa?”
”Think, my dear? I'm sure. Why, there it all was; what could have been better? Young Danby has breed in him, and what did he do? Lay down like a girl, and fainted. No, my dear, you cannot get over it. Pick your subject if you will, but you may make what you like of a boy.”
”I hope so, papa.”
”That's right, my dear. Brave little fellow! Afraid I should scold him about his cap? Thoughtless young dog, but it was all chivalrous.
Couldn't have been better. He shall have a hundred caps if he likes.
Hah! I'm on the right track, I'm sure.”
The doctor rubbed his hands and chuckled, and Helen went to bed that night better pleased with her task.
Sir James Danby, who was the magnate of Coleby, sent a very furious letter to Dengate the butcher, threatening proceedings against him for allowing a herd of dangerous bullocks to be at large in one of his fields, and ordering him to remove them at once.
Dengate the butcher read the letter, grew red in the face, and, after b.u.t.toning up that letter in his breast-pocket, he put on his greasy cap, and went to Topley the barber to get shaved.
Dengate's cap was greasy because, though he was a wealthy man, he worked hard at his trade, calling for orders, delivering meat, and always twice a week, to use his own words, ”killing hisself.”
Topley lathered Dengate's red round face, and sc.r.a.ped it perfectly clean, feeling it all over with his soapy fingers, as well as carefully inspecting it with his eye, to make sure that none of the very bristly stubble was left.
While Topley shaved, Dengate made plans, and as soon as the operation was over he went back home, and what he called ”cleaned hisself.” That is to say, he put on his best clothes, stuck a large showy flower in his b.u.t.ton-hole, c.o.c.ked his rather broad-brimmed hat on one side of his head, and went straight to Dr Grayson's.
Maria opened the door, stared at the butcher, who generally came to the back entrance, admitted him, received his message, and went into the study, where the doctor was writing, and Dexter busily copying a letter in a fairly neat round hand, but could only on an average get one word and a half in a line, a fact which looked awkward, especially as Dexter cut his words anywhere without studying the syllables.
Dexter had just left off at the end of a line, and finished the first letters of the word toothache, leaving ”toot” as his division, and taking a fresh dip of ink ready for writing ”hache.”
”Don't put your tongue out, Dexter, my boy.”
”All right,” said Dexter.
”And I would not suck the pen. Ink is not wholesome.”
”All right, I won't,” said Dexter; and he put the nibs between his lips.
”Mr Dengate, sir,” said Maria.
”Dengate? What does he want, Maria? Let him see Mrs Millett or Miss Helen.”
Maria looked scornfully at Dexter, as if he had injured her in some way.
”Which is what I said to him, sir. 'Master's busy writing,' I says; but he says his dooty, sir, and if you would see him five minutes he would be greatly obligated.”
The doctor said, ”Send him in.”