"This should be thoroughly washed, and have some boracic ointment put on it at once," said Cissy, with the quick emphasis of an expert.
"Ain't got none o' the stuff," said the youth sullenly, "nor can't afford to buy it. Besides, who's to wash him first off, and him in a temper like that?"
"Come over with me to Oaklands and I'll get you some ointment. I'll wash him myself in a minute."
The boy whistled.
"That's a good 'un," he said, "likely thing me to go to Oaklands!"
"And why?" said Cissy; "it's my father's place. I've just come from there."
"Then your father's a beak, and I ain't going a foot—not if I know it," said the lad.
"A what—oh! you mean a magistrate—so he is. Well, then, if you feel like that about it I'll run over by myself, and sneak some ointment from the stables."
And with a careless wave of the hand, a pat on the head and a "Poo' fellow then" to the white fox-terrier, she was off.
The youth cast his voice over his shoulders to a dozen companions who were hiding in the broom behind. His face and tone were both full of surprise and admiration.