“How they do hurt!” he thought to himself; and he made a sudden movement.
Then he checked himself.
No; ’twas a pity. They were so new, and looked so nice.
Yes, he would: they hurt so terribly; and, stooping down, he rapidly unlaced the new boots, and pushed them off, smiling with gratification at the relief.
Then he had another good look round for something to amuse himself with, yawned, glanced at the doctor, dropped down on hands and knees, went softly to the other side of the centre table, and began to creep about with the agility of a quadruped or one of the monkey tribe.
This was delightful, and the satisfied look on the boy’s face was a study, till happening to raise his eyes, he saw that the doctor had risen, and was leaning over the writing-table, gazing down at him with a countenance full of wonder and astonishment combined.
“What are you doing, sir?” said the doctor sternly. “Have you lost something?”
Dexter might have said, “Yes, a button—a marble;” but he did not; he only rose slowly, and his late quadrupedal aspect was emphasised by a sheepish look.
“Don’t do that on the carpet, sir. You’ll wear out the knees of your trousers. Why, where are your boots?”
“On that chair, sir,” said Dexter confusedly.