So Bylash, reading one of Miss Jibby's works in the parlor, and pausing
for a drink of water at the end of a glorious chapter, found him
tramping and muttering. His flying look dared Bylash to address him, and
Bylash prudently took the dare. But he poured his drink slowly, stealing
curious glances and endeavoring to catch the drift of the little
Doctor's murmurings.
In this attempt he utterly failed, because why? Obviously because the
Doctor cursed exclusively in the Greek and Latin languages.
In five minutes, Queed was upon his work again. Not that the turpentine
was yet dying slowly away, as Fifi had predicted that it would. On the
contrary it burned like the fiery furnace of Shadrach and Abednego. But
_One Hour a Day to be given to Bodily Exercise!_... Oh, every second
must be made to count now, whether one's head was breaking into flame or
not.
Whatever his faults or foibles, Mr. Queed was captain of his soul. But
the fates were against him to-night. In half an hour, when the
sting--they called this conflagration a sting!--was beginning to get
endurable and the pencil to move steadily, the door opened and in strode
Professor Nicolovius; he, it seemed, wanted matches.
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