On this particular morning both the farmer and his idiot were absorbed and rapt in contemplation before the gambols of two large new pets—great silky lop-eared things—who had arrived the night before. Mr. Goring was feeding them with fresh lettuces, carefully handed to him by his assistant, who divested these plants of their rough outer leaves and dried them on the palms of his hands.
“The little ’un do lap ’em up fastest, master,” remarked the boy. “I mind how those others, with them girt ears, did love a fresh lettuce.”
Mr. Goring watched with mute satisfaction the quivering nostrils and nibbling mouth of the dainty voracious creature.
“Mustn’t let them have more than three at a time, Bert,” he remarked. “But they do love them, as you say.”
“What be going to call this little ’un, master?” asked the boy.
Mr. Goring straightened his back and drew a deep breath.
“What do you think, Bert, my boy?” he cried, in a husky excited tone, prodding his assistant jocosely with the handle of his riding-whip; “What do you think? What would you call her?”
“Ah! I knew she were a she, master!” chuckled the idiot. “I knew that, afore she were out of the packer-case! Call ’er?” and the boy leered an indescribable leer. “By gum! I can tell ’ee that fast enough. Call ’er Missy Lacrima, pretty little Missy Lacrima, wot lives up at the House, and wot is going to be missus ’ere afore long.”
Mr. Goring surveyed his protégé for a moment with sublime contentment, and then humorously flicked at his ears with his whip.
“Right! my imp of Satan. Right! my spawn of Belial. That is just what I was thinking.”