Meanwhile, Squire Newcome had walked along in his usual slow and dignified manner, until he had reached the front door of the Poorhouse, and knocked.
“It's that plaguy boy again,” said Mrs. Mudge, furiously. “I won't go this time, but if he knocks again, I'll fix him.”
She took a dipper of hot suds from the tub in which she had been washing, and crept carefully into the entry, taking up a station close to the front door.
“I wonder if Mrs. Mudge heard me knock,” thought Squire Newcome. “I should think she might. I believe I will knock again.”
This time he knocked with his cane.
Rat-tat-tat sounded on the door.
The echo had not died away, when the door was pulled suddenly open, and a dipper full of hot suds was dashed into the face of the astonished Squire, accompanied with, “Take that, you young scamp!”
“Wh—what does all this mean?” gasped Squire Newcome, nearly strangled with the suds, a part of which had found its way into his mouth.
“I beg your pardon, Squire Newcome,” said the horrified Mrs. Mudge. “I didn't mean it.”
“What did you mean, then?” demanded Squire Newcome, sternly. “I think you addressed me,—ahem!—as a scamp.”