“Which is what I said to him, sir. ‘Master’s busy writing,’ I says; but he says his dooty, sir, and if you would see him five minutes he would be greatly obligated.”
The doctor said, “Send him in.”
Maria left the room, and there was a tremendous sound of wiping shoes all over the mat, although it was a dry day without, and the butcher’s boots were speckless.
Then there was another burst of wiping on the mat by the study door as a finish off, a loud muttering of instructions to Maria, and the door was opened to admit the butcher, looking hot and red, with his hat in one hand, a glaring orange handkerchief in the other, with which he dabbed himself from time to time.
“Good morning, Dengate,” said the doctor; “what can I do for you?”
“Good morning, sir; hope you’re quite well, sir. If you wouldn’t mind, sir, reading this letter, sir. Received this morning, sir. Sir James, sir.”
“Read it? ah, yes,” said the doctor.
He ran through the missive and frowned.
“Well, Dengate,” he said, “Sir James is a near neighbour and friend of mine, and I don’t like to interfere in these matters.”
“No, sir, of course you wouldn’t, sir, but as a gentleman, sir, as I holds in the highest respect—a gentleman as runs a heavy bill with me.”