The days glided on rapidly enough, with Dutch Pugh always repeating to himself the stern reproof that he was unjust to his guest and to his young wife to allow a single thought of ill to enter his heart; and to keep these fancies away he worked harder than ever at the preparations for the voyage, being fain, though, to confess that one thing that urged him on was the desire to be rid of his guest.
“I don’t think much of these furren fellows,” said Rasp, one day, when, after a shorter stay than usual at the offices, Lauré had effusively pressed Dutch’s hand and gone back to the cottage. “How does Mrs Pug like him?”
Dutch started, but said, quietly—
“Suppose we get on with the packing of that air-pump, Rasp. You had better get in a couple of the men.”
“All right,” grumbled the old fellow; “I wasn’t going to leave it undone; but if I was a married man with a ’ansum wife, ’ang me if I should care about having a smooth-tongued, dark-eyed, scented foreign monkey of a chap like that at my house.”
“You insolent old scoundrel!” cried Dutch, flashing into a rage; and he caught the old fellow by the throat, but loosened him again with an impatient “Pish!”
Rasp seized the poker and sent the red-hot cinders flying as he stoked away at the fire.
“I desire that you never speak to me again like that. How dare you!”
“Oh, all right, Mr Pug, I won’t speak again,” said Rasp. “I didn’t mean no offence. I only said what I thought, and that was as I didn’t like to see that furren chap always a-hanging after going back to your house, when he ought to be here, helping to see to the things getting ready.”
“Rasp!” said Dutch angrily.