"A sort of millstone round Lumsden's neck," said Shirley.
"Not but what he's useful," added Ogbourne. "He's first-rate at shining buttons and cleaning swords, and all sorts of little odd jobs. Only he's so full of monkey tricks, you can't believe. One night a' put two live toads in my bed, a' did; another night a' mixed some dubbin wi' my soup. I tanned him, I did, but though a' blubbered hard enough, next minute his wicked little black eyes were as mischievous as ever. Mr. Lumsden's got a handful, sir, and that's gospel truth."
"If that's his character, depend upon it he's responsible for the regidor's whitening," said Smith. "We'll have to abolish the boy; don't you think so?"
"Oh, I say!" struck in Dugdale, "never mind about a scrubby gipsy. I wish Lumsden would hurry up. I want to see Pomeroy lick him."
"You'll lose this time," said Smith.
Dugdale made a wry face. "Didn't know he was such a paragon. Speaks Spanish as well as the Don. Learnt it for a bet, I suppose."
"No," said Pomeroy, laughing. "He lived at Barcelona till he was eleven."
"Where on earth's Barcelona? Is it where the nuts grow?"
"Yes—in the big square!" said Smith with a smile.
Dugdale grunted. "But what was Lumsden doing there?" he asked.