“Glad he’s gone,” said Will. “I don’t want him. He’s too plaguey disagreeable, isn’t he, Josh?”
“Yes,” said the lad addressed.
“No, no,” said the artist. “I am afraid something’s wrong. He was too good over my accident for me to run him down.”
“Don’t run him down then,” said Will; “but he is getting to be an old curmudgeon all the same.”
“He has been with your father a long time.”
“What, old Boil O?” said Will, who had begun to draw in. “Oh, yes, years and years. He used to be a very good sort of a chap, but of late something’s made him as cross as a bear.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t like you calling him Boil O,” said the artist, taking out his book and carefully selecting a fresh fly, fastening the other in his hat.
“Oh, he doesn’t mind that,” said Will. “Besides, it’s his name, or was his name before it was changed to Drinkwater.”
“I wish I could find out what has upset him,” said the artist.
“It’s nonsense, Mr Manners,” said Will. “Old Boil O was always like that at times, and he’s as close as—as anything. He gets some pepper in him somehow. But he will come round. He always does. It’s just his way. He’s a strange chap. Fancy his creeping about after you like that.”