It seemed a cold-blooded thing to be said so carelessly. Taffy wondered if Sir Harry’s search for a horse had anything to do with this revenge, and the notion haunted him in the intervals of his morning’s shopping.
But how to lay out his sovereign? That was the first question. George, who within ten minutes had settled his own problem by purchasing a doubtful fox-terrier of the Boots of the hotel, saw no difficulty. The Boots had another pup for sale—one of the same litter.
“But I want something for mother, and the others—and Honoria.”
“Botheration! I’d forgotten Honoria, and now the money’s gone! Never mind; she can have my pup.”
“Oh!” said Taffy ruefully. “Then she won’t think much of my present.”
“Yes, she will. Suppose you buy a collar for him—you can get one for five shillings.”
They found a saddler’s and chose the dog-collar which came to four shillings; and for eighteenpence the shopman agreed to have “Honoria from Taffy,” engraved on it within an hour. Humility’s present was chosen with surprising ease—a large, framed photograph of the Bishop of Exeter; price, six shillings.
“I don’t suppose,” objected George, “your mother cares much for the Bishop of Exeter.”
“Oh, yes, she does,” said Taffy; “he’s coming to confirm us next spring. Besides,” he added, with one of those flashes of wisdom which surely he derived from her, “mother won’t care what it is, so long as she’s remembered. And it costs more than the collar.”
This left him with eight-and-sixpence; and for three-and-sixpence he bought a work-box for his grandmother, with a view of Plymouth Hoe on the lid. But now came the crux. What should he get for his father?