“Get him a small milk, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson with a most engaging air, which had long been the despair and the envy of his wide circle of acquaintance.
When this beverage had been produced and the lady in the scarlet blouse had been thanked profusely, but not altogether mollified by the recipient of this signal act of condescension, both she and Mr. Dodson gazed at him curiously while he looked nervously at the plate containing the ham-sandwich which had been set before him.
“If you’d like a bit of bread-and-butter, you can have it you know,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse.
“Oh, t-thank you, t-thank you, if you will have the g-g-great kindness,” said the boy. He was relieved beyond expression; yet his embarrassment at being addressed publicly by a mysterious kind of creature of whom his friends, the ancient authors, had invariably formed such remarkable opinions, caused a deep tawny blush to overspread his pale and hollow cheeks.
“You may well look so fat,” said the lady in the scarlet blouse, with her indignation melting. She felt that his agitation was a frank testimonial to the impact of her own overpowering personality.
During these transactions, Mr. Dodson, having dispatched his own ham-sandwich and “tankard of half-and-half with plenty of top” with great success, proceeded to deal in like manner with those of his strange companion. And further, at the conclusion of these operations he disclosed, mainly for the information of the lady in the scarlet blouse, the true basis upon which two such diverse elements as Mr. James Dodson and Mr. William Jordan, Junior, were wont to co-operate.
“Luney,” he said to the boy, while he fixed the lady in the scarlet blouse with a steady and unsmiling gaze, “you can lend me two and a kick pro tem. Matchbox has gone down in the big race, and he carried my shirt.”
“I—I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy. The limit to his knowledge in the practical sciences had presented itself rather abruptly.
“Lend me half-a-dollar, you cuckoo,” said Mr. Dodson sternly, “and don’t be so darnation polite.”
“I—I b-beg your p-pardon, sir,” stammered the boy, “I—I d-don’t t-think I k-know what you mean.”