“Oh, yes, Frank,” said David.
“Well, you’ve done good work, though I didn’t mean to praise you. But Jevons copies you: he brushes his hair like you, and whistles between his teeth, or tries to, and runs instead of walking, and, as I say, swears. Do stop it, will you? He was leaning out of his study window yesterday, exchanging compliments with somebody, and I never heard such an assortment of Billingsgate. It’s such awfully bad form, you know. Also the sentiments expressed by bad language are not edifying.”
“I’ll try, sir,” said David. “I—I never thought of swearing as meaning anything.”
“I know you didn’t; I never said it was the expression of a foul mind. But the house is becoming a perfect company of bargees. Try not to swear yourself, and kick anybody who does when it’s convenient. That’s all about that.”
“Right, sir,” said David.
“Then there’s another thing,” said Adams. “I want you to tell me about the Court of Appeal. I’ve only just heard about it, and I don’t think I like it.”
David frowned. This wasn’t his idea of a comfortable afternoon indoors at all, and he wished he had gone out for a run instead of carrying Plugs round the house.
“I don’t think I can, sir,” he said. “There are other fellows concerned in it.”
“Oh, I know that. The Court is you and Gregson and Bags; chiefly you. That’s why I asked you. I heard about it from the Head. He doesn’t like it, either. I said I would go into the matter. I don’t promise that he won’t as well.”
“I suppose that little beast Manton told him,” remarked David.