"Now I feel better," he said, putting the bottle and glass on the table, and dropping into a chair.
It was strange to me that he, who was perfectly dry, should prescribe for himself exactly the same remedy that he had given to me for my wringing wetness. Yet there was no denying the beneficence of the dose, for I was most uncomfortably warm, and had he been feeling badly he was certainly now in fine spirits.
Drawing his daughter between his knees, he enfolded her in his arms protectingly. "Well, boy, I warrant you feel better," he said.
I replied that I did, and if he did not mind I should like to sit a little farther from the stove.
He consented, laughing. "And now we should introduce
ourselves—formally," he went on. "You have met my daughter, Miss
Blight—Miss Penelope Blight. I am Mr. Blight—Mr. Henderson
Blight—in full, Andrew Henderson Blight. And you?"
"I am David Malcolm, sir," I answered.
"Ah!" He lifted his eyebrows. "You are one of those bumptious
Malcolms."
"Yes, sir," I returned proudly, for the word "bumptious" had a ring of importance in it, and I had every reason to believe that the Malcolms were persons of quite large importance.
Why Mr. Blight laughed so loud at my reply I could not understand, but I supposed that in spite of his saturnine appearance he was a man of jovial temperament and I liked him all the more.
The wave of merriment past, he regarded me gravely. "Then you must be the son of the distinguished Judge Malcolm."