“What? Why, I saw you talking to him, and giving him fruit.”
“Please, sir, I couldn’t help it. I didn’t ’sociate with him; he would come and ’sociate with me.”
“Bah!” ejaculated the doctor.
“And he said if I didn’t give him some apples and pears he’d come and stand in front of the windows here and shout ‘workus’ as loud as he could.”
“I shall have to send the police after him,” said the doctor fiercely; “and as for you, sir, I’ve quite made up my mind what to do. Kind words are thrown away. I shall now purchase a cane—and use it.”
“Oh, I say, don’t,” cried Dexter, giving himself a writhe, as he recalled sundry unpleasant interviews with Mr Sibery. “It does hurt so, you don’t know; and makes black marks on you afterwards, just as if it had been dipped in ink.”
Helen bent down over the work she had taken up.
“Don’t?” said the doctor sharply. “Then what am I to do, sir? Words are of no use. I did hope that you were going to be a better and more tractable boy.”
“Well, but ain’t I?” said Dexter, looking puzzled, and rubbing his curly head.
“Better? No, sir; much worse.”