"
Mr. Fogo leant back in his chair.
"Too high!" he gasped.
"Look 'ee here, sir: here be I, so lazy as La'rence, an' eatin' my
head off 'pon a pund a week an' my small-clothes, on condishun I
looks arter 'ee. Very well; what happens? 'Tes Dearlove, Dearlove,
Dearlove all the time. Fust Tamsin brings 'ee back, and then Paul,
an' nex' time I reckon 'twill be Peter's turn. Where-_fore_, sir,
seein' I can't offer to share wages wi' the Twins, much less wi'
Tamsin, I wants to go."
Caleb knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and, rising, stared at his
master for some seconds and with much determination.
Mr. Fogo argued the case for some time without effect. But so
sincerely did he paint his helplessness, and nervous aversion to new
faces, that at length, after many pros and cons, Caleb consented to
give him one more chance. "But mind, sir," he added, "the nex' time
you'm brought home by a Dearlove, 'go' 's the word." On this
understanding they retired to rest, but it was long before Mr. Fogo
could shut his memory upon the panorama of the day's experiences.
Let us return to the picnickers. After what had passed between Mrs.
Goodwyn-Sandys and Mr. Moggridge on the river's bank, it may seem
strange that the lady should have chosen Sam Buzza to row her home,
for the two youths were now declared rivals for her goodwill.
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