Bob propped himself on one arm, rose to his feet;
glared; hesitated— then fell to brushing
his knees.
It was a masterly white flag.
“Had enough?” George panted. “Had
enough? Are you whipped, you swine?”
Bob assiduously brushed.
“When you’re better, let me know,”
George cried; turned and hurried up the path whither
Mary had disappeared.
The forced draught of fury, pain, and exertion sent
Bob’s breath roaring in and out in noisy blasts—now
long and laboured, now spasmodic quick.
He examined his bill of health and damage. Face
everywhere tender to the touch; clothes dust-covered
and torn; both knees of trousers rent; silk hat stove
in when in a backward rush he had set his foot upon
it. His tongue discovered a broken tooth, his
handkerchief a bleeding nose, his fingers blood upon
his chin, trickling to his shirt front.
So well as might be he brushed his person; straightened
his hat; clapped handkerchief to his mouth; past staring
eyes, grinning faces, hurried out of the Park to bury
himself in a cab.
From a window Mrs. Chater saw the bruised figure of
her darling boy alight; with palpitating heart rushed
to greet him.
“Bob! My boy! My boy! What has
happened?”
Her boy brushed past; bounded to his room. Laboriously,
sick with fear, the devoted mother toiled in pursuit—found
him in his room tearing off his coat.
“My boy! My boy!”
Her boy bellowed: “Hot water!”
Can a mother’s tender care cease towards the
child she bare?
Oh! needless to ask such a question, you for whom
is pictured this devoted woman plunging at breakneck
speed for the bathroom, screaming as she runs:
“Susan! Kate! Jane! Jane!
Kate! Susan!”
Doors slammed, cries echoed, stairs shook, as trembling
servants rushed responsive.
Crashing of cans, rushing of water, called them to
the bathroom.
“Oh, m’am! What is it?”
Water flew in sprays as the agonised mother tested
its temperature with her hands; cans rattled as she
kicked them from where, in dragging one from the shelf,
the others had clattered about her feet.
Jane, Kate, and Susan clustered in alarm about the
door: “Oh, m’am! M’am!
Whatever is it?”
Mrs. Chater gave no reply. Her can full, she
plunged through them. This way and that they
dodged to give her passage; dodge for dodge, demented,
hysterical, she gave them—slopping boiling
water on to agonised toes; bursting through at last;
thundering up the stairs.
The three plunged after her: “Oh, m’am!
M’am! Whatever is it?”
The devoted woman paused at the head of the stairs;
screamed down orders: “Sticking-plaster!
Lint! Cotton-wool! Mr. Bob has had an accident!
Hot-water bottles! Ice! Doctor! Go for
the doctor, one of you!”
