Ben stepped out of reach instinctively, but was summoned back to work the pump-handle. He would then have beat a hasty retreat, but was frustrated. A large hand caught and held him; he looked up in alarm, and saw the blue eyes laughing.
“I had a wash Sunday last!” he said imploringly. “I ain’t cutting no wheedle! Honest, I did!”
“Did you, by Jupiter? Then it’s a week since you were clean, is it? Strip, my lad!”
“No!” said Ben tearfully, wriggling to be free of the grip on his shoulder. “I won’t!”
The Captain dealt him one hard, admonitory spank. “You’d better!” he said.
His voice was perfectly good-humoured, but Ben was no fool, and, with a despairing sniff, he capitulated. It was doubtful if ever before he had been obliged to scrub his skinny person so thoroughly; and certainly no well-wisher had ever held him remorselessly under the pump, and worked it with such a will. He emerged spluttering and shivering, and eyed his persecutor with mingled respect and resentment. John tossed the towel to him, saying: “That’s better! If you own another shirt, put it on!”
“What, clean mish too?” gasped Ben.
“Yes—and comb your hair!” said John. “Bustle about, now! I’m hungry.”
Half an hour later, surveying Ben across the kitchen table, he professed himself satisfied. He said that Ben looked much more the thing, an observation which caused that young gentleman’s bosom to swell with indignation. His eyes were red-rimmed and watering from contact with the soap, and his skin felt as though it had been scoured. He still thought the Captain a fascinating and an awe-inspiring personage, but having watched him vigorously brushing his teeth he now suspected that he must be queer in his attic. When a hearty breakfast had been disposed of, and the Captain insisted not only that all the crockery should be washed, but that the floor should be swept clean of mud, crumbs, scraps of bacon-rind, and some decayed cabbage stalks, he was sure of it. He explained that Mrs. Skeffling, from down the road, came to clean the place every Wednesday, but the Captain paid no heed, merely telling him to fetch a broom, and to be quick about it. He himself, having discovered some blacking and a brush in the cupboard, took his boots into the garden, and set about the unaccustomed task of removing the dried mud from them. He also tried, not very successfully, to get rid of the travel stains from his buckskin breeches. He recalled, as he worked on them, Cocking’s words, and realized that there was more to the care of leathers than he had supposed. In fact, the upkeep of a gentleman’s wardrobe seemed to entail a great deal of unforeseen labour, not the least arduous of which was the removal of Beau’s hairs from the skirts of his coat, where they obstinately stuck, resisting all efforts to brush them off.
When this was accomplished, there was Beau to be watered, fed, and groomed, his bit to be cleaned, the saddle girths to be brushed free of mud, by which time the morning was considerably advanced. While he performed all these labours John tried to think of some solution to Ben’s problem. He thought of several, but not one that was likely to meet with any sort of approval. It began to seem as though he would be obliged, instead of continuing his journey to Leicestershire, to spend the day in making discreet enquiries into the gatekeeper’s possible whereabouts.