‘He is a funny man,’ commented Robin.
‘He’s a beast,’ said Kit, conclusively.
‘He’s a clever beast, anyway,’ protested Wilfred, feeling bound to support the profession. ‘He’s done you an awful lot of good already, Kit, and he lets you go out as much as you like. It’s the modern treatment, or something.’
‘Why is he a beast, Kit?’ asked Barbara, sympathetically. The world had convinced her so strongly, since yesterday afternoon, of its possibilities in the way of beasts, that she felt sure Kit was right about it.
‘He grunts at you as though you weren’t fit to speak to; and he isn’t a bit sorry for you, as old Browne used to be, but he seems to think you are making it all up,’ said Christopher, in an injured tone.
‘He doesn’t like boys; that’s at the bottom of it,’ added Peter. ‘He looked black as thunder because we were rotting in the library with Kit, and he cleared us all out before he’d even look at his tongue.’
‘And he never sent for a silver spoon, nor nothing,’ cried Robin, in much excitement. ‘How did he ’xamine your throat, Kit, if he hadn’t got a silver spoon?’
‘Shoved a thing like a skewer down, that he took out of his pocket,’ said Kit, contemptuously. ‘His pocket was full of rotten skewers and things.’
‘That’s the modern treatment,’ said Wilfred again.
‘Modern treatment be hanged!’ remarked Peter, with a laugh. ‘Jill hates him too; he treated her as if she was about ten years old.’