"Nothing, nothing, Whittingham," replied the youth. "You had better go down stairs—my father may want you."
"If so be your father wants anythink, Tom will despond to the summins as usual," said the butler, leisurely seating himself upon a chair close by the table whereon Richard had placed his package. "But might I be so formiliar as to inquire into the insignification of that bundle of shirts and ankerchers."
"Whittingham, I implore you to ask me no questions: I am in a hurry—and——"
"Master Richard, Master Richard," cried the butler, shaking his head gravely, "I'm very much afeerd that somethink preposterious is going to incur. I could not remain a entire stranger to all that has transpirated this day; and now I know what it is," he added, slapping his right hand smartly upon his thigh; "your brother's a-going to amputate it!"
"To what?"
"To cut it, then, if you reprehend that better. But it shan't be done, Master Richard—it shan't be done!'
"Whittingham——"
"That's my nomenklitter, Master Richard," said the old man, doggedly; "and it was one of the fust you ever learned to pernounce. Behold ye, Master Richard, I have a right to speak—for I have knowed you both from your cradles—and loved you too! Who was it, when you come into this subluminary spear—who was it as nussed you—and——"
"Good Whittingham, I know all that, and——"
"I have no overdue curiosity to satisfy, Master Richard," observed the butler; "but my soul's inflicted to think that you and Master Eugene couldn't make a friend of old Whittingham. I feel it here, Master Richard—here, in my buzzim!"—and the worthy old domestic dealt himself a tremendous blow upon the chest as he uttered these words.