Slegge and his following stood aloof, the latter listening to the former’s sneering remarks, some of which reached Glyn and made him feel hot; while just in the midst of the loudest cheering, Wrench the man-servant made his appearance, followed by a big tom-cat which passed most of its time in the pantry rubbing its head against Wrench’s legs while he was cleaning the plate or washing tea-cups, probably in gratitude for past favours. When it was a kitten some young Plymborough roughs had hurled it into the little river, and were making of it what they termed a “cockshy,” pelting it with stones, fortunately ineffectually, and trying to beat it under water, when the Doctor’s footman, who was crossing the bridge, saw what was going on and made an unexpected charge upon the young ruffians, effectually scattering them. One tripped and fell headlong into the river, out of which he crawled as thoroughly wet as the unhappy little kitten, which Wrench received as it swam ashore, rolled up in his handkerchief and took home to his pantry, where it grew rapidly, waxed fat, and was never so happy as when it could find a chance to rub its head against its master.
Hard on Wrench’s heels came also one Sam Grigg, page-boy, who on particular occasions wore a livery jacket with three rows of plated pill-like buttons, but who was now in the fatigue-dress of rolled-up shirt sleeves and a very dirty apron, while his left-hand was occupied by a boot, the right by a blacking-brush, which seemed to have been applied several times to an itching nose, his chin, and one side of his face, rather accounting for the plural nickname given him by the boys of “Day & Martin.”
These had come out to join in the ovation, Wrench adding several proud encomiums, one of which was, “My eyes, gentlemen! You did do it fine!”
The Doctor’s footman had hardly uttered these words when there was the loud ringing of a bell.
“The Doctor!” he ejaculated, and he hurried into the house, his exit from the playground being followed by a fresh burst of cheering and a peculiar triumphant dance on the part of the page, accompanied by the waving of boot and blacking-brush, till, in his disgust, Slegge made a rush at him from behind, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and ran him rapidly to the boot-house, sent him flying in with a savage kick, and banged the door after him.
“A blackguard!” he cried haughtily. “That’s why our boots are not half cleaned. How dare he! The dirty, contemptible scrub! The Doctor ought to be told of this.”
Slegge stood sniffing and snorting and glaring round fiercely at the worshippers of the two heroes of the hour, who stood flushed and worried, ready to beat a retreat to the dormitory.
But an end was put to their reception in a very unexpected way, for Wrench suddenly made his appearance, looking very solemn as he hurried off to the two lads with, “The Doctor wants to see you both, sirs, directly, in the study.”
Slegge’s face lit up with a malicious grin.
“Haw, haw!” he laughed. “Three cheers, boys! The Doctor wants to see them both in his study. Impositions! Hooray! Cheer, you little beggars! Why don’t you cheer?”