“Sitting up late every night like this isn’t very good for one of your age,” observed his master, mindful of the old fellow’s faithful services. “I’ll have Riggs up from Wroxeter, and he can attend to me at night.”
“You’re very thoughtful of me, Master Dudley; but I’d rather serve you myself, sir. I can’t abear young men about me. They’re only in the way, and get a-flirtin’ with the gals whenever they have a chance.”
“Very well, Parsons, just please yourself,” answered Chisholm pleasantly. “But to-morrow morning first pack my bag and then wire to Wroxeter. I shall be going down there in the afternoon with two friends for a couple of days’ shooting.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the old fellow in the antique dress suit and narrow tie. He half turned to walk out, but hesitated and fidgeted; then, a moment later, he turned back and stood before his master.
“Well, Parsons, anything more?” Chisholm asked. He was used to the old fellow’s confidences and eccentricities, for more than once since he had come down from college his ancient retainer had given him words of sound advice, his half-century of service allowing him such licence as very few servants possessed.
“There’s one little matter I wanted to speak to you about, Master Dudley. I’m an old man, and a pretty blunt ’un at times, that you know.”
“Yes,” laughed Dudley. “You can make very caustic remarks sometimes, Parsons. Well, who’s been offending you now?”
“No one, sir,” he answered gravely. “It’s about something that concerns yourself, Master Dudley.”
His master glanced up at him quickly, not without some surprise, saying:
“Well, fire away, Parsons. Out with it. What have I done wrong this time?”