"What, old Hewitt? Why ------"
"No, uncle, of course; it's just his spite." "Have you been putting his back up again?"
"Oh, the everlasting story — want of respect to the Bishop. I wish that old boy would come back out of his grave for five minutes — wouldn't I just punch his head!"
The Bishop, an eminent and learned great-uncle of the Raymonds, and the only member of the family who had ever attained to any special distinction, was at the vicarage a kind of household god on a small scale. Every object connected with his memory was treated with solemn reverence; and Jack's grudge against him was, perhaps a natural result of the many hundreds of "lines" that he had written out, on various half-holidays, as penance for transgressing against the family taboo.
"You know that knife with the green handle that uncle makes such a fuss over because the Duke of something or other gave it to the Bishop? I just took it to mend my tackle this afternoon, and, of course, he came in and caught me; and wasn't he wild! I slipped out at the back door to let you know. I'll get done as quick as I can. Goodbye."
"Jack!" Billy called after the retreating figure; "meet me behind our cowshed when you're done; we'll have larks."
Jack stopped and turned back. "Why, what's up?"
"Whitefoot's calving, and something's gone wrong. Father's sent for the vet to put her right. He won't let me in; but there's a chink at the back by the ash-heap, and we can ------"
Jack flared up suddenly.
"Bill Greggs, if I catch you hanging about and peeping at things that aren't your business, the vet 'll have you to put right next, you dirty little cad."
Billy subsided, meekly enough, but with a small internal chuckle, remembering what things could safely be said and done under this strict commander's very nose.
"All right," he said mildly; "you needn't snap my head off. I say, do you want a grey-bird?"