Part 12 (1/2)
”I'll go straight to y'r Grandfer the noo, and if ye'r not flayed alive! Aye! I'll gang the noo to Himself----”
”_Wi' fower an twanty men, an' five an' thairrty pipers_,” suggested Dam in tuneful song.
Mr. Alastair Kenneth MacIlwraith did what he rarely did--swore violently.
”_Do you think at your age it is right_?” quoted the wicked boy ...
the exceedingly bad and reprehensible boy.
The maddened gardener turned and strode to the house with all his imperfections on his head and face and neck.
Taking no denial from b.u.t.terson, he forced his way into the presence of his master and clamoured for instant retributive justice--or the acceptance of his resignation forthwith, and him twanty-twa years in the ane place.
”Grandfather,” roused from slumber, gouty, liverish, ferociously angry, sent for Dam, Sergeant Havlan, and Sergeant Havlan's cane.
”What's the meaning of this, Sir,” he roared as Dam, cool, smiling, friendly ever, entered the Sanctum. ”What the Devil d'ye mean by it, eh? Wreckin' my orchid-houses, a.s.saultin' my servants, waking me up, annoying ME! Seven days C.B.[15] and bread and water, on each count.
What d'ye mean by it, ye young hound? Eh? Answer me before I have ye flogged to death to teach ye better manners! Guilty or Not Guilty? and I'll take your word for it.”
”The missile, describing a parabola, struck its subjective with fearful impact, Sir,” replied the bad boy imperturbably, misquoting from his latest fiction (and calling it a ”parry-bowler,” to ”Grandfather's” considerable and very natural mystification).
”_What?_” roared that gentleman, sitting bolt upright in astonishment and wrath.
”No. It's _ob_jective,” corrected Dam. ”Yes. With fearful impact.
Fearful also were the words of the Mon Sandy.”
”Grandfather” flushed and smiled a little wryly.
”You'd favour _me_ with pleasantries too, would you? I'll reciprocate to the best of my poor ability,” he remarked silkily, and his mouth set in the unpleasant Stukeley grimness, while a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
”A dozen of the very best, if you please, Sergeant,” he added, turning to Sergeant Havlan.
”Coat off, Sir,” remarked that worthy, nothing loath, to the boy who could touch him almost as he would with the foil.
Dam removed his Eton jacket, folded his arms, turned his back to the smiter and a.s.sumed a scientific arrangement of the shoulders with tense muscles and coyly withdrawn bones. He had been there before....
The dozen were indeed of the Sergeant's best and he was a master. The boy turned not a hair, though he turned a little pale.... His mouth grew extraordinarily like that of his grandfather and a little muscular pulse beat beneath his cheek-bone.
”And what do you think of _my_ pleasantries, my young friend?”
inquired Grandfather. ”Feeling at all witty _now_?”
”Havlan is failing a bit, Sir,” was the cool reply. ”I have noticed it at fencing too--Getting old--or beer perhaps. I scarcely felt him and so did not see or feel the point of your joke.”
”Grandfather's” flush deepened and his smile broadened crookedly. ”Try and do yourself justice, Havlan,” he said. ”'Nother dozen. 'Tother way.”
Sergeant Havlan changed sides and endeavoured to surpa.s.s himself. It was a remarkably sound dozen.
He mopped his brow.
The bad boy did not move, gave no sign, but retained his rigid, slightly hunched att.i.tude, as though he had not counted the second dozen and expected another stroke.
”Let that be a lesson to you to curb your d.a.m.ned tongue,” said ”Grandfather,” his anger evaporating, his pride in the stiff-necked, defiant young rogue increasing.