in it you want to shuffle it off
your shoulders on to mine."

"Oh, no, father; don't say that."

"But I have said it, sir," cried Sir James.

"But he doesn't mean it, Mark," cried Dean.

"What, sir! What! What! What's that, sir? How dare you!" thundered
Sir James. "Are you going to be insolent and disobedient too?"

"Excuse me, Sir James," said the doctor. "Let me say a few words."

"No, sir," cried Sir James fiercely, "not one word! This is my affair.
I never interfere with you over your teaching of my boys."

"I beg your pardon, Sir James."

"No, don't," cried the baronet. "I beg yours. I am very much put out,
doctor--very angry--very angry indeed. I always am when I am opposed in
anything which I consider to be right. I oughtn't to have spoken to you
as I did, so pray leave this to me or I may forget myself and say words
to you, my good old friend, for which I shall be sorry afterwards."

The doctor bowed his head.

"I say, uncle," cried Dean.

"Well, sir, and pray what do you say?" snapped out Sir James.

"I was only going to say don't be cross with us, uncle."

"I am not cross, sir--cross, indeed!--only angry and hurt at this
opposition. Well, sir, what were you going to say?"

"Only, nunkey--"

"Nunkey, sir! Bah!" That bah! was a regular bark. "You know how I
hate that silly, childish word."

"That you don't," thought the boy. "You know you always like it when
you are not out of temper."

"Well, there, sir; go on."

"I was going to say, uncle, that I know how it can all be managed."

"Yes, sir, of course! Like all stupid people you want to put your spoke
in the wheel and stir everything up and make the mess worse than it was
before.--I say, doctor,"--and there was a peculiar twinkle in Sir
James's eye--"that's what you would call a mixed metaphor, isn't it?"

"Well, Sir James," said the doctor, smiling, "it does sound something
like it."

"Sound!" said Sir James, who was cooling fast. "It would look very much
like it in print. Now, Dean, fire away. How were you going to put it
right?"

"You come too, uncle."

"Come too!" cried the boy's uncle, growing fierce again. "How can I
come too, sir? Why, sir, I should want a Sam Weller, like poor old
Pickwick at Dingley Dell, when he could not go to the partridge
shooting. Do you think I want to go in a wheelbarrow with someone to
push me, in a country where there are no roads? Bah! Pish! Tush!
Rrrrr-r-r-rubbish! Her