The Witchs Head | Page 6

much stirring, even when its waters are not
bitter. Certainly Mr. Cardus's would not. Yet that morning he had
stirred it violently enough.

In the long, oak-panelled room, used indifferently as a sitting and
dining room, Mr. Cardus found "Hard-riding Atterleigh" and his
grand-daughter, little Dorothy Jones. The old man was already seated at
table, and Dorothy was busying herself cutting bread, looking as
composed and grown-up as though she had been four-and-twenty
instead of fourteen. She was a strange child, with her assured air and
woman's ways and dress, her curious thoughtful face, and her large
blue eyes that shone steadily as the light of a lamp. But just now the
little face was more anxious than usual.
"Reginald," she began, as soon as he was in the room (for by Mr.
Cardus's wish she always called him by his Christian name), "I am
sorry to tell you that there has been a sad disturbance."
"What is it?" he asked, with a frown; "Jeremy again?" Mr. Cardus
could be very stern where Jeremy was concerned.
"Yes, I am afraid it is. The two boys----" but it was unnecessary for her
to carry her explanations further, for at that moment the swing-door
opened, and through it appeared the young gentlemen in question,
driven in like sheep by the beady-eyed Grice. Ernest was leading,
attempting the impossible feat of looking jaunty with a lump of raw
beefsteak tied over one eye, and presenting a general appearance that
suggested the idea of the colours of the rainbow in a state of
decomposition.
Behind him shuffled Jeremy, his matted locks still wet from being
pumped on. But his wounds were either unsuited to the dreadful
remedy of raw beefsteak, or he had adopted in preference an heroic one
of his own, of which grease plentifully sprinkled with flour formed the
basis.
For a moment there was silence, then Mr. Cardus, with awful politeness,
asked Jeremy what was the meaning of this sight.
"We've been fighting," answered the boy, sulkily. "He hit----"
"Thank you, Jeremy, I don't want the particulars, but I will take this

opportunity to tell you before your sister and my nephew what I think
of you. You are a boor and a lout, and, what is more, you are a
coward."
At this unjust taunt the lad coloured to his eyes.
"Yes, you may colour, but let me tell you that it is cowardly to pick a
quarrel with a boy the moment he sets foot inside my doors----"
"I say, uncle," broke in Ernest, who was unable to see anything
cowardly about fighting, an amusement to which he was rather partial
himself, and who thought that his late antagonist was getting more than
his due, "I began it, you know."
It was not true, except in the sense that he had begun it by striking the
dog: nor did this statement produce any great effect on Mr. Cardus,
who was evidently seriously angry with Jeremy on more points than
this. But at least it was one of those well-meant fibs at which the
recording angel should not be offended.
"I do not care who began it," went on Mr. Cardus, angrily, "nor is it
about this only that I am angry. You are a discredit to me, Jeremy, and
a discredit to your sister. You are dirty, you are idle; your ways are not
those of a gentleman. I sent you to school--you ran away. I give you
good clothes--you will not wear them. I tell you, boy, that I will not
stand it any longer. Now listen. I am going to make arrangements with
Mr. Halford, the clergyman at Kesterwick, to undertake Ernest's
education. You shall go with him; and if I see no improvement in your
ways in the course of the next few months, I shall wash my hands of
you. Do you understand me now?"
The boy Jeremy had, during this oration, been standing in the middle of
the room, first on one leg, then on the other. At its conclusion he
brought the leg that was at the moment in the air down to the ground,
and stood firm.
"Well," went on Mr. Cardus, "what have you to say?"

"I have to say," blurted out Jeremy, "that I don't want your education.
You care nothing about me," he went on, his grey eyes flashing and his
heavy face lighting up; "nobody cares about me except my dog Nails.
Yes, you make a dog of me myself; you throw things to me as I throw
Nails a bone. I don't want your education, and I won't have it. I don't
want the fine clothes you buy for me, and I won't wear them. I don't
want to be a burden on you either. Let me go away and