Part 11 (2/2)
The Haddock had no bloodful vice, but he was unstable as water and could not excel, a moral coward and weakling, a liar, a borrower of what he never intended to return, undeniably and incurably mean, the complete parasite.
From the first he feared and blindly obeyed Miss Smellie, propitiated while loathing her; accepted her statements, standards, and beliefs; curried favour and became her spy and informer.
”What's about the record cricket-ball throw, Dam?” inquired Lucille, as they strolled down the path to the orchard and kitchen-garden, hot-houses, stream and stables, to seek the coy, reluctant worm.
”Dunno,” replied the boy, ”but a hundred yards wants a lot of doing.”
”Wonder if _I_ could do it,” mused Lucille, picking up a tempting egg-shaped pebble, nearly as big as her fist, and throwing it with remarkably neat action (for a girl) at the first pear-tree over the bridge that spanned the trout-stream.
_At_, but not into.
With that extraordinary magnetic attraction which gla.s.s has for the missile of the juvenile thrower, the orchid-house, on the opposite side of the path from the pear-tree, drew the errant stone to its hospitable shelter.
Through the biggest pane of gla.s.s it crashed, neatly decapitated a rare, choice exotic, the pride of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, released from its hold a hanging basket, struck a large pot (perched high in a state of unstable equilibrium), and pa.s.sed out on the other side with something accomplished, something done, to earn a long repose.
So much for the stone.
The descending pot lit upon the edge of one side of the big gla.s.s aquarium, smashed it, and continued its career, precipitating an avalanche of lesser pots and their priceless contents.
The hanging basket, now an unhung and travelling basket, heavy, iron-ribbed, anciently mossy, oozy of slime, fell with neat exact.i.tude upon the bald, bare cranium of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith, head gardener, and dour, irascible child and woman hater.
”Bull's-eye!” commented Dam--always terse when not composing fairy-tales.
”Crikey!” shrieked Lucille. ”That's done it,” and fled straightway to her room and violent earnest prayer, not for forgiveness but for salvation, from consequences. (What's the good of Saying your Prayers if you can't look for Help in Time of Trouble such as this?)
The face of Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith was not pleasant to see as he pranced forth from the orchid-house, brandis.h.i.+ng an implement of his trade.
”Ye'll be needing a wash the day, Mon Sandy, and the Sawbath but fower days syne,” opined Dam, critically observing the moss-and-mud streaked head, face and neck of the raving, incoherent victim of Lucille's effort.
When at all lucid and comprehensible Mr. MacIlwraith was understood to say he'd give his place (and he twanty-twa years in it) to have the personal trouncing of Dam, that Limb, that Deevil, that predestined and fore-doomed Child of Sin, that--
Dam pocketed his hands and said but:--
”_Havers_, Mon Sandy!”
”I'll tak' the hide fra y'r bones yet, ye f.e.c.kless, impident--”
Dam shook a disapproving head and said but:--
”_Clavers_, Mon Sandy!”
”I'll _see_ ye skelped onny-how--or lose ma job, ye--”
More in sorrow than in anger Dam sighed and said but:--
”_Hoots_, Mon Sandy!”
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