“Look ’ere, young feller, do you want to have your blinkin’ ’ead knocked orf? Where the Cap’en goes, I goes, and don’t you make any mistake about it!”
“I didn’t say anything,” the chauffeur expostulated.
“Then don’t say it. See? Keep your blinkin’ ’ead shut and mind your own business.”
And, scowling fiercely and thrusting his empty pipe into his trousers pocket, Chipmunk rolled away.
A few hours later Oliver, entering his room to dress for dinner, found him standing in the light of the window laboriously fitting studs into a shirt. The devoted fellow having gone to report to his master, had found Burford engaged in his accustomed task of laying out his master’s evening clothes—Oliver during his stay in London had provided himself with these necessaries. A jealous snarl had sent Burford flying. So intent was he on his work, that he did not hear Oliver enter. Oliver stood and watched him. Chipmunk was swearing wholesomely under his breath. Oliver saw him take up the tail of the shirt, spit on it and begin to rub something.
“Ker-ist!” said Chipmunk.
“What in the thundering blazes are you doing there?” cried Oliver.
Chipmunk turned.
“Oh, my God!” said Oliver.
Then he sank on a chair and laughed and laughed, and the more he looked at Chipmunk the more he laughed. And Chipmunk stood stolid, holding the shirt of the awful, wet, thumb-marked front. But it was not at the shirt that Oliver laughed.