Peddle’s injured air deepened almost into resentment.
“Where the devil——!” Never had Mr. Marmaduke, or his father, the Canon, used such language. He drew himself up.
“I have given orders, sir, for the uniform suit you wore yesterday to be sent to the cleaners.”
“Oh, hell!” said Doggie. And Peddle, unaccustomed to the vernacular of the British Army, paled with horror. “Oh, hell!” said Doggie. “Look here, Peddle, just you get on a bicycle, or a motor-car, or an express train at once and retrieve that uniform. Don’t you understand? I’m a private soldier. I’ve got to wear uniform all the time, and I’ll have to stay in this beastly bed until you get it for me.”
Peddle fled. The picture that he left on Doggie’s mind was that of the faithful steward with dismayed, uplifted hands, retiring from the room in one of the great scenes of Hogarth’s “Rake’s Progress.” The similitude made him laugh—for Doggie always had a saving sense of humour—but he was very angry with Peddle, while he stamped around the room in his silk pyjamas. What the deuce was he going to do? Even if he committed the military crime (and there was a far more serious crime already against him) of appearing in public in mufti, did that old ass think he was going to swagger about Durdlebury in bottle-green suits, as though he were ashamed of the King’s uniform? He dipped his shaving-brush into the hot water. Then he threw it, anyhow, across the room. Instead of shaving, he would be gloating over the idea of cutting that old fool, Peddle’s, throat, and therefore would slash his own face to bits.
Things, however, were not done at lightning speed in the Deanery of Durdlebury. The first steps had not even been taken to send the uniform to the cleaners, and soon Peddle reappeared carrying it over his arm and the heavy pair of munition boots in his hand.
“These too, sir?” he asked, exhibiting the latter resignedly and casting a sad glance at the neat pair of brown shoes exquisitely polished and beautifully treed which he had put out for his master’s wear.
“These too,” said Doggie. “And where’s my grey flannel shirt?”
This time Peddle triumphed. “I’ve given that away, sir, to the gardener’s boy.”
“Well, you can just go and buy me half a dozen more like it,” said Doggie.