“Quite well, Mr Parkley,” said Dutch, smiling.
“That’s right, bless her! Tell her I’m coming down to spend a Sunday soon.”
“We shall only be too glad, sir,” said Dutch, smiling. “When shall it be?”
“Soon, man; but not yet. Too busy. I’ve got this big job on,” he continued, rubbing his bald head, which looked as if he had worn a diver’s helmet till all the hair had been frayed off. “Oh, here’s a letter.”
For just then Rasp came into the office, not quietly, like his master—who walked slowly and heavily, as if putting down boots with massive leaden soles, and seemed as if he were wading through deep water, and liable to get entangled amongst sunken rigging—but with a bang and a rush like a big wind, and even made the letter he held in his hand rustle as he held it out to Mr Parkley, saying, with a surly snarl—
“Letter. Answer. Waiting.”
Then, uttering a snort, he walked across to the diving suits, snatched off Mr Parkley’s hat, whisked off the comforter, and dabbed them both on a hat-peg close at hand; after which he took out a large blue-check cotton pocket-handkerchief drew forward a set of short steps, and, growling as he did so, began to breathe on the bright copper, gave it a good polishing, and then went off to his den.
“See that?” said Mr Parkley, nodding his head sideways at Rasp, as he went out—but not until he had seized the poker, rammed it between the bars with a scientific twist, and made the blaze go dancing up the chimney. “See that, Pugh! He’s the real master here. He’s a tyrant.”
“Well, really, sir, he has his own way pretty well.”
“Rare stuff though, Pugh, my dear boy—rare stuff. That man’s one you can always trust in any emergency. I’d leave my life in his hands at any time.”