“How dah you, sir!” cried the sufferer, fiercely. “Did I not tell you, sir, that I did not want it done? Did I not order you to quit the room, sir? Am I not your superior officer, sir? And you dared to disobey me, sir, because I am on the sick list. How dah you, sir! How dah you, sir! If you were in a regiment, sir, it would mean court-martial, sir, and—Oh, dear me!”
“That’s cooler and more comfortable, father, isn’t it?” said Joe, calmly enough, and without seeming to pay the slightest attention to the fierce tirade of angry words directed against him.
“Yes,” sighed the Major, “that’s cooler and more comfortable; but,” he cried, turning angry again and beginning to draw out and point his great fierce moustache with his long thin fingers, “I will not have you disobey my orders, sir. You’re as bad as your poor mother used to be—taking command of the regiment, and dictating and disobeying me as if I were not fit to manage my own affairs. How dah you, sir, I say—how dah you!”
Joe leaned over his father in the most imperturbable way, screwed up his mouth as if he were whistling, and drew out the Major’s clean handkerchief from his breast-pocket, shook it, and then gently dabbed the moist forehead.
“Don’t! Leave off, sir!” roared the Major. “How dah you, sir! I will not be treated in this way as if I were a helpless infant. Joseph, you scoundrel, you shall leave home at once, and go to an army tutor. I will not have these mutinous ways in the house.”
Joe smiled faintly, screwed up his lips a little more, turned the handkerchief, gave the forehead a light wipe over by way of a polish, and then lowered it.
“Want to blow your nose, dad?” he said.
“No, sir, I do not want to blow my nose; and if I did I could blow it myself. Oh, dear! Oh, dear. This pain—this pain!”
Joe thrust the handkerchief back, and laid his palm on his father’s forehead.
“Not quite so hot, dad,” he said.