The splashing was a failure for he fell down. Mr. Devering picked him up by the back as if he had been a puppy dog and said, "Tear up to the house—touch a match to the kindling in the box stove in your room and dress like sixty."
Dallas cast an apprehensive look over his shoulder.
"They're not paying any attention to you," said Mr. Devering. "Skedaddle," and he clapped his hands.
"And you, Prince Fetlar," he called after me, "run up and down the road to dry yourself—we're all too busy to give you a rub-down now."
I ran along beside my master up to the house and found to my dismay that his eyes were full of tears. "I'm an awful baby, my Pony," he gulped, "but I can't help it."
I just tore up and down the fine piece of road in front of the house until my blood was like liquid fire. Then I went to see how young Dallas was getting on.
Poor chap—he had forgotten to light his fire, and he was blue with cold. Suddenly his door opened and Mr. Devering came in fully dressed, his face red and glowing.
He had his nephew's clothes all on in a trice, brushed his hair, fastened his tie, then took him to the living room.
"Mother," he called through the open doorway to the dining veranda, "may Dallas and I have our breakfast by the fire?"
She opened her eyes a bit, but her husband gave her a glance, and she said, "Certainly. Big Chief, set a wee table for two."