“Another time, George. Another time,” I answered loftily.
“Right you are; I’ll tell them to keep Bontebok up,” came the ready response. “He’ll be livelier in the morning.”
The young villain, you see, was not going to let me down so easily.
“But I may not be. Those circus tricks are all very well for an unfledged young monkey like you, George, but a middle-aged buffer isn’t always on for that sort of game.”
“Middle-aged buffer! That’s good,” jeered the young rascal. “Why, you and Brian were at school together.”
“Oh, George, will you scoot?” interrupted Iris, emphasising the injunction with a far from gentle push. “You’re getting such a bore, you know. Go and make yourself useful in some way, if you can. Get the air-gun and go and shoot some mouse birds. Brian and dad both want some tails to clean their pipes with.”
“Can’t. Dad’d object. It’s Sunday.”
“Well, anyhow—scoot. I don’t want you. So long.”
“I’m on for a swim in the dam,” was the answer. “I’ll go and rout out Brian.”
Iris, you see, ruled the house, including George. Including me, I might add; but for me her rule was light. She was almost more grateful to me for keeping my own counsel upon it than for getting her out of her perilous predicament. Anyhow, we were great friends, and she teased me with the same freedom and whole-heartedness that she teased Brian, who idolised her; but in her bright, pretty, engaging little ways there was none of the covert impudence that characterised Master George’s attempts at banter.