John, in high good-humour, said, "Good afternoon, Tom. My uncle has let
up on the swimming. He asked me to let you fellows know."
"It's about time," said Tom crossly. "After all it was your fault and we
had to pay for it."
"Now, Tom, you made me pretty angry when you talked to me the other day,
and if you want to get me into another row, I won't object; but I was not
asked for any names, and I did not put the blame on any one. Can't you
believe a fellow?"
"No, I can't. If that parson hadn't come, I'd have licked you."
"Perhaps," said John.
"Isn't any perhaps about it. You look out, that's all."
John laughed. He was just now what the Squire described as horse-happy
and indisposed to quarrel. "Suppose you wake up the old gentleman. He
_can_ snore."
Tom shook the doctor's shoulder, "Wake up, Dad. Here's John Penhallow."
The Doctor sat up and pulled off his handkerchief. The flies fell upon
his bald pate. "Darn the flies," he said. "What is it, John?"
"My uncle wants you to come to Westways to-morrow and doctor old Josiah's
rheumatism."
"I'll come."
"He wants you to look after Peter Lamb. He's been drinking again."
"What! that whisky-rotted scamp. It's pure waste of time. How the same
milk came to feed the Squire and that beast the Lord knows.
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