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
buttoning 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 scraped 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
button-hole, cocked 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."