“Yes, Mum,” said Bealby and everybody laughed very agreeably.
“And now,” said the lady, taking pleasure in her words, “know by these presents—By the bye, what is your name?”
Bealby scarcely hesitated. “Dick Mal-travers, Mum,” he said and almost added, “The Dauntless Daredevil of the Diamond-fields Horse,” which was the second title.
“Dick will do,” said the lady who was called Judy, and added suddenly and very amusingly: “You may keep the rest.”
(These were the sort of people Bealby liked. The right sort.)
“Well, Dick, we want to know, have you ever been in service?”
It was sudden. But Bealby was equal to it. “Only for a day or two, miss—I mean, Mum,—just to be useful.”
“Were you useful?”
Bealby tried to think whether he had been, and could recall nothing but the face of Thomas with the fork hanging from it. “I did my best, Mum,” he said impartially.
“And all that is over?”