“Mutton ‘ead yerself.”
Peter jumped into the gap. “Oh, do drive them, Mr. Grace. Don’t let him be dragged there in public.”
“If that’s the wye yer feel abart it—— Anythin’ fer you, Master Peter.”
“Look ‘ere,” said Grace’s policeman, “h’I’m in love with yer darter—as good as one o’ the family. We don’t need to sye nothink abart the keb.”
“Get in, mutton ‘ead.”
They got in.
Cat’s Meat shook his harness as much as to say, “Now you’re sorry, I suppose. What did I tell you?”
Peter, as the cab grew dim in the distance, leant against the wall sobbing. The door at the top of the steps opened timidly and Miss Leah looked out. “Peter. Peter.” But he couldn’t bear to face her.
As he stole home through the unreal shadows, he tried to persuade himself that it hadn’t happened. It must be his old disease—his ‘magination. It was as though he had been playing with fear all this while and now he experienced its actuality. It hadn’t happened, hadn’t—— Then the pity of the pinched unshaven face, the huddled shoulders and the iron hardness of the world overwhelmed him.
And Uncle Waffles hadn’t said a word when he was taken—he hadn’t even coughed.