Part 16 (2/2)

”Then your father's a beak, and I ain't going a foot--not if I know it,” said the lad.

”A what--oh! you mean a magistrate--so he is. Well, then, if you feel like that about it I'll run over by myself, and sneak some ointment from the stables.”

And with a careless wave of the hand, a pat on the head and a ”Poo'

fellow then” to the white fox-terrier, she was off.

The youth cast his voice over his shoulders to a dozen companions who were hiding in the broom behind. His face and tone were both full of surprise and admiration.

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'LET ME LOOK AT HIM,' SHE SAID.”]

”Say, chaps, did you hear her? She said she'd 'sneak' the ointment from the stables. I tell 'ee what, she'll be a rare good plucked one that. And her a beak's daughter! Her mother mun ha' been a piece!”

It was half-an-hour before Cissy got back with the pot of boracic dressing and some lint.

”I had to wait till the coachman had gone to his tea,” she explained, ”and then send the stable boy with a message to the village to get him out of the way.”

The youth on the stone heap secretly signalled his delight to the appreciative audience hiding in the broom bushes.

Then Cissy ordered him to get her some warm water, which he brought from one of the kettles swinging on the birchen tripods scattered here and there about the encampment.

Whereupon, taking the fox-terrier firmly on her knee and turning up the skirt of her dress, she washed away all the dirt and matted hair, cleansing the wound thoroughly.

The poor beast only made a faint whining sound at intervals. Then she applied the antiseptic dressing, and bound the lint tightly down with a cincture about the animal. She fitted his neck with a neat collar of her own invention, made out of the wicker covering of a Chianti wine flask which she brought with her from Oaklands.

”There,” she said, ”that will keep him from biting at it, and you must see that he doesn't scratch off the bandage. I'll be pa.s.sing to-morrow and will drop in. Here's the pot of ointment. Put some more on in the morning and some again at night, and he will be all right in a day or two.”

”Thank'ee, miss,” said the lad, touching his cap with the natural courtesy which is inherent in the best blood of his race. ”I don't mean to forget, you be sure.”

Cissy waved her hand to him gaily, as she went off towards Windy Standard. Then all at once she stopped.

”By the way, what is your name? Whom shall I ask for if you are not about to-morrow?”

”Billy Blythe,” he said, after a moment's pause to consider whether the daughter of a magistrate was to be trusted; ”but I'll be here to-morrow right enough!”

”Why did you tell the beak's daughter your name, Bill, you blooming Johnny?” asked a companion. ”You'll get thirty days for that sure!”

”Shut up, Fish Lee,” said the owner of the dog; ”the girl is main right. D'ye think she'd ha' said 'sneaked' if she wasn't. G'way, Bacon-chump!”

Cissy Carter took the road to Windy Standard with a good conscience.

She was not troubled about the ”sneaking,” though she hoped that the coachman would not miss that pot of ointment.

At the foot of the avenue, just where it joined the dusty road to the town of Edam, she met Sir Toady Lion. He had his arms full of valuable sparkling jewellery, or what in the distance looked like it as the sun shone upon some winking yellow metal.

Toady Lion began talking twenty to the dozen as soon as ever he came within Cissy's range.

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