“Hasn’t your account been paid, Dengate!” said the doctor, frowning, while Dexter looked hard at the butcher, and wondered why his face was so red, and why little drops like beads formed all over his forehead.
“No, sir, it hasn’t, sir,” said the butcher, with a chuckle, “and I’m glad of it. I never ask for your account, sir, till it gets lumpy. I always leave it till I want it, for it’s good as the bank to me, and I know I’ve only to give you a hint like, and there it is.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the doctor.
“What I have come about is them bullocks, sir, hearing as your young lady, sir, and young shaver here—”
“Mr Dengate,” said the doctor, frowning, “this young gentleman is my adopted son.”
“Beg pardon, sir, I’m sure,” said the butcher obsequiously. “I had heared as you’d had taken a boy from the—”
“Never mind that, Dengate,” said the doctor shortly, as the butcher dabbed himself hurriedly,—“business.”
“Exactly, sir. Well, sir, it’s like this here: I’m the last man in the world to put dangerous beasts in any one’s way, and if I knowed that any one o’ them was the least bit risky to a human being, he’d be bullock to-day and beef to-morrow. D’yer see?”
“Yes, of course,” said the doctor, “and very proper.”
“But what I holds is, sir, and my man too says is, that there ain’t a bit o’ danger in any on ’em, though if there was nobody ought to complain.”