"Haven't you done that yet?" he would cry. "Go on, be a month of Sundays."
Again, and Paul could understand him least then, he was jocular and in high spirits.
"I'm going to bring my little Yorkshire terrier bitch tomorrow," he said jubilantly to Paul.
"What's a Yorkshire terrier?"
"Don't know what a Yorkshire terrier is? Don't know a Yorkshire—" Mr. Pappleworth was aghast.
"Is it a little silky one—colours of iron and rusty silver?"
"That's it, my lad. She's a gem. She's had five pounds' worth of pups already, and she's worth over seven pounds herself; and she doesn't weigh twenty ounces."
The next day the bitch came. She was a shivering, miserable morsel. Paul did not care for her; she seemed so like a wet rag that would never dry. Then a man called for her, and began to make coarse jokes. But Mr. Pappleworth nodded his head in the direction of the boy and the talk went on sotto voce.
Mr. Jordan only made one more excursion to watch Paul, and then the only fault he found was seeing the boy lay his pen on the counter.