“Wot wuz dat?”
“Ask her,” replied Dr. Armstrong, as he walked away.
“Wot have youse guv ’im?”
Constance laughed, and blushed still more deeply, as, after a slight pause, she replied, “It’s my turn, Swot, to say ‘rubber’?” This said, she stooped impulsively and kissed the boy’s forehead. “You are a dear, Swot,” she asserted, warmly.
With the mooting of the Christmas tree, the interest in Old Sleuth markedly declined, being succeeded by innumerable surmises of the rapidly convalescing boy as to the probable nature and number of the gifts it would bear. In this he was not discouraged by Miss Durant, who, once the readings were discontinued, brought a bit of fancy-work for occupation.
“Wot’s dat?” he inquired, the first time she produced it.
“A case for handkerchiefs.”
“For me?”
“Did you ever have a handkerchief?”
“Nop. An’ I’d radder have suttin’ else.”