“Now, then; look here, sir—or no,” said the doctor less sternly. “Look here, my boy.”
The doctor’s manner influenced the little fellow directly, and he went up and laid his hand upon his patron’s knee, looking brightly from face to face.
“Now, mind this: in future you are to be Dexter.”
“All right: Dexter Coleby,” said the boy.
“No, no, no, no!” cried the doctor testily. “Dexter Grayson; and don’t keep on saying ‘All right.’”
“All—”
The boy stopped short, and rubbed his nose with his cuff.
“Hah! First thing, my dear. Twelve pocket-handkerchiefs, and mark them ‘Dexter Grayson.’”
“What? twelve handkerchies for me—all for me?”
“Yes, sir, all for you; and you are to use them. Never let me see you rub your nose with your cuff again.”