“Where’s the goose?” asked Jamie.
“Where? Before your eyes—under your nose. That brilliant brother of mine has drawn one. Hold the slate up, Scanty.”
“That’s not a goose,” said Jamie.
“Not a goose! You don’t know what geese are.”
“Yes, I do,” retorted the boy, resentfully, “I know the wild goose and the tame one—which do you call that?”
“Oh, wild goose, of course.”
“It’s not one. A goose hasn’t a tail like that, nor such legs,” said Jamie, contemptuously.
Mr. Scantlebray, senior, looked at Messrs. Vokins and Jukes and shook his head. “A bad case. Don’t know a goose when he sees it—and he is eighteen.”
Both Vokins and Jukes made an entry in their pocket-books.
“Now Jukes,” said Vokins, “will you take a turn, or shall I?”