“Joe Cross, sir. He’s a first-rate hand with a comb and a pair of scissors. You let him do your head, sir and you won’t know yourself afterwards.”
“Oh yes, I should,” said the boy sleepily, gazing down at the quivering compass and its many points.
“I mean you would feel so comfortable, sir.”
“Oh, well, then, I will. Anything,” cried Rodd—“anything not to be so hot!”
“That’s right, sir. Ast me to ast you, sir.”
“Well, you’ve been asking for the last half-hour. What is it?” cried Rodd peevishly.
“To ast the doctor, sir—”
“For some physic to make them cool?” snapped out Rodd. “Tell them to go and ask him themselves, and he’ll say what I do—that they are not to eat so much nor drink so much, and not to work in the sun. There, that’s all uncle would say.”
“Yes, sir, but that aren’t it,” cried Gregg, making one of the spokes of the wheel swing from hand to hand.
“Then what do they want?”