“‘Ow?”
“By doing what I’ve asked you.”
Mr. Grace stared between Cat’s Meat’s ears, twisting a straw in his mouth. The ears were pricked up. He nudged Peter. “D’yer see that? The ‘oss is a-listenin’. ‘E ain’t much ter look h’at, but ‘e’s won’erful h’intelligent. When h’I’m drunk ‘e just walks by h’every pub and pays no h’attention to my pullin’. ‘E’s like a mother, that ‘oss is, ter me. ‘E’s more kind than a darter, which ain’t sayin’ much.”
“Well?”
“Well wot? Oh, yes. H’am I goin’ to ‘elp yer stink-pot of a h’uncle? Ter be frank wiv yer, I h’am.”
Cat’s Aleat frisked his tail. Again Mr. Grace nudged Peter. “See that? ‘E likes h’adwentures. Won’erful h’intelligent h’animal, but not much ter look h’at!”
With the falling of dusk they met. Peter heard the wheels coming down the mews; slipping the bars from the stable door, he let his uncle out.
“Yer a nice old cup o’ tea,” growled Mr. Grace, addressing Ocky, “a reg’lar mucker. Tell yer wot yer oughter do—yer oughter sign the pledge. ‘Ope yer ain’t got much luggage; me keb ain’t as strong as it were.”
Ocky retreated into the darkness of the interior. He had promised Peter he would become a good man and for once was ashamed of himself.
Seated by his side, Peter felt after his hand. “Don’t mind what he says.”