To you I owns h’up; I ‘as me little failin’s, especially since Cat’s Meat———He could never mention Cat’s Meat without wiping his eyes. “But if I ‘as me little failin’s, that ain’t no reason for callin’ me Judas His Chariot and h’other scripture nimes. She’s a dustpot, that’s wot she is, my darter Grice.”
“A what?” asked Peter.
Mr. Grice was surprised that a man just down from Oxford shouldn’t know the word; he was flattered to find himself in a position to explain.
“A dustpot,” he repeated. “That means a child wot sits on ‘er father’s ‘ead.”
“Oh, a despot!”
Mr. Grace had learnt to be patient under correction. “Now, Master Peter, ain’t that wot I said? I sez, ‘She’s a dustpot’; then you sez, ‘Oh, a dustpot!’ ‘Owever yer calls it, that’s wot I calls ‘er.”
They were sitting in an empty cab in the stable from which Mr. Grice hired his conveyance. Peter touched the old man’s hand affectionately. “I’ve been wondering—thinking about you. You know, I’m going traveling with Kay. My friend, the Faun Man, left me a thousand pounds to buy what he called ‘a year of youngness.’ He was great on youngness, was the Faun Man.”
Mr. Grace nodded. His eyes twinkled. “Remember that night, Peter, and the song ‘e made h’up about yer?
‘Oh, Peter wuz ‘is nime,
So Peterish wuz ‘e,