The man seeing the company stare at him, halted, took his pipe out of his mouth, and scratched his head.
“But—er—forgive me, my dear Oliver,” said the Dean. “No doubt he is an excellent fellow—but don’t you think he might smoke his pipe somewhere else?”
“Of course he might,” said Oliver. “And he jolly well shall.” He put his hand to his mouth, sea-fashion—they were about thirty yards apart—and shouted: “Here, you! What the eternal blazes are you doing here?”
“Please don’t hurt the poor man’s feelings,” said the kindly Dean.
Oliver turned a blank look on his Uncle. “His what? Ain’t got any. Not that kind of feelings.” He proceeded: “Now then, look lively! Clear out! Skidoo!”
The valet touched his forehead in salute, and—“Where am I to go to, Cap’en?”
“Go to——”
Oliver checked himself in time, and turned to the Dean.
“Where shall I tell him to go?” he asked sweetly.
“The kitchen garden would be the best place,” replied the Dean.