Part 14 (1/2)

”How dah you, sir!” cried the sufferer, fiercely. ”Did I not tell you, sir, that I did not want it done? Did I not order you to quit the room, sir? Am I not your superior officer, sir? And you dared to disobey me, sir, because I am on the sick list. How dah you, sir! How dah you, sir! If you were in a regiment, sir, it would mean court-martial, sir, and--Oh, dear me!”

”That's cooler and more comfortable, father, isn't it?” said Joe, calmly enough, and without seeming to pay the slightest attention to the fierce tirade of angry words directed against him.

”Yes,” sighed the Major, ”that's cooler and more comfortable; but,” he cried, turning angry again and beginning to draw out and point his great fierce moustache with his long thin fingers, ”I will not have you disobey my orders, sir. You're as bad as your poor mother used to be-- taking command of the regiment, and dictating and disobeying me as if I were not fit to manage my own affairs. How dah you, sir, I say--how dah you!”

Joe leaned over his father in the most imperturbable way, screwed up his mouth as if he were whistling, and drew out the Major's clean handkerchief from his breast-pocket, shook it, and then gently dabbed the moist forehead.

”Don't! Leave off, sir!” roared the Major. ”How dah you, sir! I will not be treated in this way as if I were a helpless infant. Joseph, you scoundrel, you shall leave home at once, and go to an army tutor. I will not have these mutinous ways in the house.”

Joe smiled faintly, screwed up his lips a little more, turned the handkerchief, gave the forehead a light wipe over by way of a polish, and then lowered it.

”Want to blow your nose, dad?” he said.

”No, sir, I do not want to blow my nose; and if I did I could blow it myself. Oh, dear! Oh, dear. This pain--this pain!”

Joe thrust the handkerchief back, and laid his palm on his father's forehead.

”Not quite so hot, dad,” he said.

”How dah you, sir! It's your rank mutinous obstinacy that makes you say so. Take away that nasty hot paw.”

Joe went to the mantelpiece, took a large square bottle of eau-de-Cologne, removed the stopper, and once more drew out his father's pocket-handkerchief, moistened it with the scent, and softly applied it to the sufferer's forehead.

”Confound you!” cried the Major. ”Will you leave me alone, sir, or am I to get up and fetch my cane to you?”

”What do they make eau-de-Cologne of, father?” said Joe, coolly. ”Does it come from a spring like all those nasty mineral waters you take?”

”It's insufferable!” panted the Major.

”Time you had a drink, father,” said Joe, quietly.

”It is not, sir. I take that medicine at eleven o'clock, military time.

It wants quite half-an-hour to that yet. You want to be off to play with that idle young scoundrel of Pendarve's, I suppose; but I wish you to stay here till it is eleven. Do you hear that, sir? You disobey me if you dare.”

”Five minutes past eleven now, dad,” said Joe, after a glance at the clock over the chimney-piece.

”It's not, sir,” cried the Major, turning his head quickly to look for himself, and then wincing from pain. ”That clock's wrong. It's a wretched cheap fraud, and never did keep time. Fast! Nearly an hour fast!”

”Said it was the best timekeeper in Cornwall only yesterday,” said Joe to himself, as he went to a side table on which stood a couple of bottles, a gla.s.s, and water-jug.

Here the boy busied himself for a few moments, with his father frowning and watching him angrily, and looking, in spite of his pain-distorted countenance, pallid look and sunken cheeks, a fine, handsome, middle-aged man.

The next minute Joe was coming back with a tumbler in his hand, and stirring it with a little gla.s.s rod.

”Here you are, dad. Shall I hoist you up while you tip it off?”

”No, sir; I can sit up. How much quinine did you put in?”

”Usual dose, father.”