“Oh, very well, Ned. I’ve done.”
“That’s right; and remember you said example was better than precept.”
“And so it is, Ned.”
“Very well then, uncle!” cried the boy; “I want to follow your example and go abroad.”
Johnstone Murray brought his fist down bang upon the table of his study—the table covered with books, minerals, bird-skins, fossils, bones, and the miscellaneous odds and ends which a naturalist delights in collecting round him in his half study, half museum, where as in this case, everything was so sacred that the housemaid dared hardly enter the place, and the result was a cloud of dust which immediately made Ned sneeze violently. Then his uncle sneezed; then Ned sneezed; then they both sneezed together, and again and again.
“Oh, I say, uncle!” cried Ned; and he sneezed once more.
“Er tchishou! Bless the king!—queen I mean,” said the naturalist.
“You shouldn’t, uncle,” cried the boy, now laughing immoderately, as his uncle sneezed and choked, and wiped his eyes.
“It was all your fault, you young nuisance. Dear me, this dust—”
“Ought to be saved for snuff.”