"Has he hurt his legs?"
"Yus," said Blake with a wink. "'E 'urt 'em at the Blue Cow comin'
'ere."
Mr. Jones' sheepish smile broadened into a guffaw.
"Well, you rest," said William sympathetically. "You lie down on the
sofa an' rest. _I'll_ help, so's you needn't do _anything_!"
Mr. Jones grew hilarious.
"Come on!" he said. "My eye! This young gent's all _roight_, 'e is.
You lie down an' rest, 'e says! Well, 'ere goes!"
To the huge delight of his companions, he stretched himself at length
upon the chesterfield and closed his eyes. William surveyed him with
pleasure.
"That's right," he said. "I'll--I'll show you my dog when your legs
are better. I've gotter _fine_ dog!"
"What sort of a dog?" said Mr. Blake, resting from his labours to ask
the question.
"He's no _partic'lar_ sort of a dog," said William honestly, "but he's
a jolly fine dog. You should see him do tricks!"
[Illustration: WILLIAM SURVEYED HIM WITH PLEASURE. "I'LL SHOW YOU MY
DOG WHEN YOUR LEGS ARE BETTER," HE SAID.]
"Well, let's 'ave a look at 'im. Fetch 'im art."
William, highly delighted, complied, and Jumble showed off his best
tricks to an appreciative audience of two (Mr. Jones had already
succumbed to the drowsiness that had long been creeping over him and
was lying dead to the world on the chesterfield).
Jumble begged for a biscuit, he walked (perforce, for William's hand
firmly imprisoned his front ones) on his hind legs, he leapt over
William's arm.
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