But at the sight of Mrs. Ambler, he trod valiantly upon his gouty toe, and
screwed his features into his blandest smile--an effort which drew so
heavily upon the source of his good-nature, that he arrived at Chericoke an
hour later in what was known to Betty as "a purple rage."
"You know I have always warned you, Molly," was his first offensive thrust
as he entered Mrs. Lightfoot's chamber, "that your taste for trash would be
the ruin of the family. It has ruined your daughter, and now it is ruining
your grandson. Well, well, you can't say that it is for lack of warning."
From the centre of her tester bed, the old lady calmly regarded him. "I
told you to bring back the boy, Mr. Lightfoot," she returned. "You surely
saw him in town, didn't you?"
"Oh, yes, I saw him," replied the Major, loosening his high black stock.
"But where do you suppose I saw him, ma'am? and how? Why, the young
scapegrace has actually gone and hired himself out as a stagedriver--a
common stagedriver. And, bless my soul, he had the audacity to tip his hat
to me from the box--from the box with the reins in his hand, ma'am!"
"What stage, Mr. Lightfoot?" inquired his wife, with an eye for
particulars.
"Oh, I wash my hands of him," pursued the Major, waving her question aside.
"I wash my hands of him, and that's the end of it. In my day, the young
were supposed to show some respect for their elders, and every calf wasn't
of the opinion that he could bellow like a bull--but things are changed
now, and I wash my hands of it all.
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