"And what is a Buff-tip?" inquired Laurence in a tone of patronizing ignorance.
"Oh, it's a pretty common moth."
"Harold, darling, don't bother about moths or butterflies to-night. Come and say how d'ye do to dear Uncle John."
"I've dropped the cork of my poison-bottle. Look out, Frida, bother you, I say, you'll tread on it."
The combined scents of cyanide of potassium and hot metal from Harold's bull's-eye lantern were heavy upon the moist air; when the cork was found, Harold lost control over the lantern which he flashed into everybody's face in turn, so that John, rendered as helpless as a Buff-tip, walked head foremost into a sopping bush by the side of the path. However, the various accidents of arrival all escaped being serious, and the thought of dinner shortened the affectionate greetings. Remembering how Hugh had paid out Harold with his own air-gun, John greeted his youngest brother more cordially than he could ever have supposed it was possible to greet him again.
By general consent, the owner of the house was allowed to be tired that evening, and all discussion of the Christmas preparations was postponed until the next day. Harold made a surreptitious attempt to break into the most promising parcel he could find, but he was ill rewarded by the inside, which happened to be a patent carpet sweeper.
Before old Mrs. Touchwood went to bed, she took John aside and whispered:
"They're all against Hughie. But I've tried to make the poor boy feel that he's at home, and dear Georgie will be coming very soon, which will make it pleasanter for Hugh, and I've thought of a nice way to manage Jimmie."
"I think you worry yourself needlessly over Hugh, Mama; I can assure you he's perfectly capable of looking after himself."
"I hope so," the old lady sighed. "All my patience came out beautifully this evening. So I hope Hughie will be all right. He seemed to think you were a little annoyed with him."