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."

Maria left the room, and there was a tremendous sound of wiping shoes all over the mat, although it was a dry day without, and the butcher's boots were speckless.

Then there was another burst of wiping on the mat by the study door as a finish off, a loud muttering of instructions to Maria, and the door was opened to admit the butcher, looking hot and red, with his hat in one hand, a glaring orange handkerchief in the other, with which he dabbed himself from time to time.

"Good morning, Dengate," said the doctor; "what can I do for you?"

"Good morning, sir; hope you're quite well, sir. If you wouldn't mind, sir, reading this letter, sir. Received this morning, sir. Sir James, sir."

"Read it? ah, yes," said the doctor.

He ran through the missive and frowned.

"Well, Dengate," he said, "Sir James is a near neighbour and friend of mine, and I don't like to interfere in these matters."

"No, sir, of course you wouldn't, sir, but as a gentleman, sir, as I holds in the highest respect--a gentleman as runs a heavy bill with me."

"Hasn't your account been paid, Dengate!" said the doctor, frowning, while Dexter looked hard at the butcher, and wondered why his face was so red, and why little drops like beads formed all over his forehead.

"No, sir, it hasn't, sir," said the butcher, with a chuckle, "and I'm glad of it. I never ask for your account, sir, till it gets lumpy. I always leave it till I want it, for it's good as the bank to me, and I know I've only to give you a hint like, and there it is."

"Humph!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the doctor.

"What I have come about is them bullocks, sir, hearing as your young lady, sir, and young shaver here--"

"Mr Dengate," said the doctor, frowning, "this young gentleman is my adopted son."

"Beg pardon, sir, I'm sure," said the butcher obsequiously. "I had heared as you'd had taken a boy from the--"

"Never mind that, Dengate," said the doctor shortly, as the butcher dabbed himself hurriedly,--"business."

"Exactly, sir. Well, sir, it's like this here: I'm the last man in the world to put dangerous beasts in any one's way, and if I knowed that any one o' them was the least bit risky to a human being, he'd be bullock to-day and beef to-morrow. D'yer see?"

"Yes, of course," said the doctor, "and very proper."

"But what I holds is, sir, and my man too says is, that there ain't a bit o' danger in any on 'em, though if there was n.o.body ought to complain."

"Well, there I don't agree with you, Dengate," said the doctor haughtily, as Dexter came and stood by him, having grown deeply interested.

"Don't you, sir? Well, then, look here," said the butcher, rolling his yellow handkerchief into a cannon ball and ramming it into his hat, as if it were a cannon that he now held beneath his left arm. "There's a path certainly from stile to stile, but it only leads to my farrest medder, and though I never says nothing to n.o.body who thinks it's a nice walk down there by the river to fish or pick flowers or what not, though they often tramples my medder gra.s.s in a way as is sorrowful to see, they're my medders, and the writing's in my strong-box, and not a shilling on 'em. All freehold, seven-and-twenty acres, and everybody as goes on is a trespa.s.ser, so what do you say to that?"

The butcher unloaded the imaginary cannon as he said this triumphantly, and dabbed his face with the ball.

"Say?" said the doctor, smiling; "why, that I'm a trespa.s.ser sometimes, for I like to go down there for a walk. It's the prettiest bit out of the town."

"Proud to hear you say so, sir," said the butcher eagerly. "It is, isn't it? and I'm proud to have you go for a walk there, sir. Honoured, I'm sure, and if the--er--the young gentleman likes to pick a spot out to keep ground baited for a bit o' fishing, why, he's hearty welcome, and my man shall save him as many madd.i.c.ks for bait as ever he likes."

"I'll come," cried Dexter eagerly. "May I go?" he added.

"Yes, yes; we'll see," said the doctor; "and it's very kind of Mr Dengate to give you leave."