The old lady seemed still to imagine Dicky Fanshawe the schoolboy he was twelve years ago, and he, nothing loth, rose and made for the door. In the hall outside he found Patsy Rooney.
“Mr James told me to ax you for the keys of your trunks, sir,” said Patsy.
“Oh, he did, did he? Well, as I’m going to my room I’ll open my trunks, as you call them, myself. Go on before me and show me the way. What’s your name?”
“Patsy Rooney is me name,” replied the other, leading the way upstairs, “but they calls me Patsy for short. I clanes the boots and the windys, and looks afther the childer since the governess was took sick and wint off to the infirmary wid the maisles.”
“What on earth is the maisles?” asked Mr Fanshawe.
“It’s what the pigs get,” replied Patsy, leading the way down the corridor, “whin they come out all over spots.”
“Oh, the measles, you mean?”
“That’s thim,” said Patsy, pausing at a door and opening it. “This is your room, Misther Fanshawe; and there’s hot wather in that big blew jug forninst you on the wash-stand.”
“You just wait and help me to unpack,” said Dicky. “My man sprained his foot, and I had to leave him behind. Here, lug that portmanteau out from the wall, till I open it.”
Patsy did as he was bidden, and then stood by watching the proceedings.