“A well-meaning little boy, I’m sure,” said the Bishop kindly, “well-meaning, but unwise—er—unwise—but your attentiveness during the meeting did you credit, my boy—did you credit.”
William, for all his ingenuity, could think of no remark suitable to the occasion.
“Hurry up,” said the Vicar.
William turned to go. He knew when he was beaten. He had spent a lot of time and trouble and had not even secured the episcopal handkerchief. He had bruised himself and cut himself. He understood the Vicar’s veiled threat. He saw his already distant chances of pocket-money vanish into nothingness when the cost of the Vicar’s glasses and plates was added to the landing window. He wouldn’t have minded if he’d got the handkerchief. He wouldn’t have minded anything if——
“Don’t suck your hand, my boy,” said the Bishop. “An open cut like that is most dangerous. Poison works into the system by it. You remember I told you how the poison of alcohol works into the system—well, any kind of poison can work into it by a cut—don’t suck it; keep it covered up—haven’t you a handkerchief?—here, take mine. You needn’t trouble to return it. It’s an old one.”
The Bishop was deeply touched by what he called the “bright spirituality” of the smile with which William thanked him.
******
William, limping slightly, his hand covered by a grimy rag, came out into the garden, drawing from his pocket with a triumphant flourish an enormous violently-coloured silk handkerchief. Robert, who was weeding the rose-bed, looked up. “Here,” he called, “you can jolly well go and put that handkerchief of mine back.”
William continued his limping but proud advance.
“’S’ all right,” he called airily, “the Bishop’s is on your dressing-table.”