“I don’t like that,” he said, pushing the tureen away. “It ain’t good.”
“But you should—”
“Don’t correct him now, papa; you will spoil the poor boy’s dinner,” remonstrated Helen.
“He said it was lunch,” said Dexter.
“Your dinner, sir, and our lunch,” said the doctor. “There, try and behave as we do at the table, and keep your elbows off the cloth.”
Dexter obeyed so quickly that he knocked a glass from the table, and on leaving his seat to pick it up he found that the foot was broken off.
The doctor started, and uttered a sharp ejaculation.
In an instant the boy shrank away into a corner, sobbing wildly.
“I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t help it, sir. Don’t beat me, please. Don’t beat me this time. I’ll never do so any more.”
“Bless my soul!” cried the doctor, jumping up hastily; and the boy uttered a wild cry, full of fear, and would have dashed out of the open window into the garden had not Helen caught him, the tears in her eyes, and her heart moved to pity as she read the boy’s agony of spirit. In fact that one cry for mercy had done more for Dexter’s future at the doctor’s than a month’s attempts at orderly conduct.