“Yus,” he said, bending anew to his task, “’im wot walks funny.”

“Why’s he walk funny?” persisted William.  “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.  He leapt into the very centre of an old Venetian glass that was on the floor by the packing-case and cut his foot slightly on a piece of it, but fortunately suffered no ill-effects.

William saw consternation on Mr. Johnson’s face and hastened to gather the pieces and fling them lightly into the waste-paper basket.

“It’s all right,” he said soothingly.  “She said things get broken removin’.”

When Mrs. Brown entered the room ten minutes later, Mr. Jones was still asleep, Jumble was still performing, and Messrs. Blake and Johnson were standing in negligent attitudes against the wall appraising the eager Jumble with sportsmanlike eyes.

“’E’s no breed,” Mr. Blake was saying, “but ’e’s orl roight.  I’d loik to see ’im arfter a rat.  I bet ’e’d——­”

Seeing Mrs. Brown, he hastily seized a vase from the mantel-piece and carried it over to the packing case, where he appeared suddenly to be working against time.  Mr. Johnson followed his example.

Mrs. Brown’s eyes fell upon Mr. Jones and she gasped.

“Whatever—­” she began.

“’E’s not very well ’m,” explained Mr. Blake obsequiously. “’E’ll be orl roight when ‘e’s slep’ it orf.  ’E’s always orl roight when ’e’s slep’ ’it orf.”