“Your run,” repeated Larkins, sternly. “You don’t want your coat. I’ll hold that. And mind, I don’t want you to go running like a steam-engine, or a runaway horse.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to,” said Gubbs.
“Just trot easy,” continued the other, “for about half a mile. Go as far as that gate over there, then rest two minutes and trot back again.”
His manner was so dictatorial that Mr. Gubbs, remembering in time his score at the “Three Fishers,” swallowed something he was going to say—and it was nearly strong enough to choke him—and set off at a strange, weird gait towards the indicated goal. He reached it at last, and after a long two minutes started back again in response to the semaphore-like appeals of the enthusiastic Larkins.
“I’ve got my work cut out for me, I can see,” said the latter, as his victim, puffing and blowing, sat down on the ground. “But I’ll soon get you in trim, and mind you keep quiet about it. I don’t want Bullock to know.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Gubbs.
“Because he’d train Tarbut the same way,” said Larkins, with a cunning grin.
“Well, why shouldn’t Tarbut ’ave a doing same as me?” said Mr. Gubbs, vindictively. “Why should ’e be a-laying in comfort in ’is bed while I’m catching cold bathing and killing myself running?”
“Don’t you be a fool,” said Larkins, affectionately patting him on the shoulder. “Come into my place when you have time, and I’ll put the gloves on with you a bit; and be careful what you eat, mind, else you’ll undo all the good I’ve done you.”
If it is possible for a man to expectorate sarcastically, Mr. Gubbs achieved that feat.