When we got inside the house she became voluble, but only in whispers.
“Now, Master Dante, I can’t ’elp it if the soap do get into your mouth. You’ve got to be a clean boy fer once in yer h’existence. It may mean h’everythin’. That gent’s some relation o’ yourn. ’E’s goin’ to take you away wiv him, an’ he may ’ave money. I shall ’ate to lose yer. Now let’s look at yer neck.”
She scrubbed away at my face till it was scarlet; she let the water from the flannel trickle down my back. I was too awe-inspired to wriggle; by some occult power the dreadful personage downstairs might learn about it. Having been pitched into my Sunday sailor-suit and squeezed into a pair of new boots and prickly stockings, I was bundled into the august presence.
When I entered he was straddling the fire-place carpet—the one which ought to have been magic—and waggling his coat-tails with his hands.
My father rose from his chair. “This is your great-uncle, Obadiah Spreckles. Come and be introduced, Dante.”
Up to now I had never heard of such a relative, but I came timidly forward and shook hands.
“A fine little fellow. A very fine little fellow, and the image of his mother,” said my great-uncle.
My father winced at the mention of my mother. My great-uncle spread his legs still wider and addressed me in a jerky important manner.
“Got a lot of dogs and cats. Got a goat and a cow. Got some hens. Got up early this morning. Saw the sun shining. Thought you might like to take a look at ’em, young man.”
Turning to my father, “Well, Cardover, I must be going. I’ll take good care of him and all that. I’m very busy—hardly a moment to spare.”