A mild grunt at his back made him swing round. It was Tolly, just back from the dentist, of a deeper puce than usual, and with a terrible uncompromising row of glistening teeth shooting out aggressively between his thin lips.
He gave a deferential duck, and stood on approval, with a laboured attempt at an appearance of modest deprecation.
“Turn round, Tolly,” said his master, “away from me, I can’t bear it all at once!”
He was shaking with silent laughter.
“How do you feel about them yourself, Tolly?”
“Fust-rate, sir—your wussup.”
Since his master’s rise in life he was much exercised as to the best terms by which to give him honour, and he varied them daily.
“I can bite nails, your wussup.”
“Ah! You mustn’t play fast and loose with these tusks as you might with ones bred and reared on the premises.”
“Lord! your wussup, I wouldn’t make that free, being, as they are your property, sir, besides, any fool can see as how they be the real bought article, money down, not your everyday common grinders. There weren’t a toff I met as didn’t mention ’em, I tried to keep ’em dark, sir.”