He was passing Tasser at the time, and round the bend he came on Savaury himself, industriously sprinkling the March dust with a large watering-can. He was so astonished that he pulled up dead, or Savaury would certainly not have recognised him, with his cap on his nose and a companion of such tender years at his side.
“Where on earth did you pick that up?” he exclaimed, in his amazement allowing the watering-can to expend itself upon his own boots. “And where the dickens are you taking it, either?”
“I didn’t pick it up,” Larry answered gloomily. “It picked me up. And I’m not takin’ it. It’s takin’ itself. I’m allowed in the car on sufferance, merely because I know a bit about drivin’. I say, hadn’t you better be goin’ in an’ changin’ your boots?”
Savaury passed the insinuation scornfully, though he moved the can, and put the question to which Larry had already grown so used. “How is Christian?” he asked.
“Oh, gettin’ a move on at last, thanks very much! I saw him this mornin’ for a few minutes. A bit gone to seed, of course, but they tell me they’ll soon have him bloomin’. Had a narrow shave of goin’ out—poor old Laker!”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Savaury was obviously relieved. “Very glad! It’s so tiresome when one’s friends are ill. One quivers every time the bell rings. And Petronilla’s always coming in with false reports. She collects them in the village—like measles. I haven’t had a meal in peace since the poor young thing was damaged. One was never sure when one might have to jump up and pull down the blinds.”
“I’ll wring your neck if you don’t stop jawin’, you callous little blighter!” Larry flung at him, leaning forward threateningly, and Savaury went pink and looked haughty; then came closer and put a hand on the car, his tone changing.
“That’s all right, my dear boy. It’s only my tiresome way of putting things. I’m more glad than I can say that he’s better. He’s a good lad, and he’d be a loss to Crump.”
“If you’d seen him, this mornin’, as white as washin’ an’ as thin as a window!” poor Larry got out with difficulty. “I don’t feel like jokin’ about it yet.”
“I’m not joking, Lionel. If I talk nonsense, it’s because I’m so exceedingly relieved. I’ve known Christian since he was a little blue-eyed morsel afraid to open his mouth before his mother. I used to be terribly sorry for him—he seemed so lonely. He was always glad to get away from Crump, and—I’ll tell you something—one day I stole him! We had him at Tasser all day, Petronilla and I, and he played with all Petronilla’s account-books, and had a steeple-chase over the drawing-room furniture, and an auction of the old prints and the china. We’ve a broken bit of Dresden in a glass case, that we still call ‘Christian’s Catastrophe.’ Petronilla won’t have it thrown away. I’m very glad for Petronilla’s sake that the boy’s improving. Perhaps now I shall be able to get her to sleep without having to count sheep for her all night.”