"I'm so glad you're staying for dinner. I shouldn't like to think you
were running away from him."

"I was only afraid of losing my temper and making a scene," replied
Doggie with dignity.

"His manners are odious," said Peggy. "You leave him to me."

Suddenly the Dean, taking a turn that brought him into view of the
porch, stopped short.

"Goodness gracious!" he cried. "Who in the world is that?"

He pointed to a curious object slouching across the lawn; a short
hirsute man wearing a sailor's jersey and smoking a stump of a
blackened pipe. His tousled head was bare; he had very long arms and
great powerful hands protruded at the end of long sinewy wrists from
inadequate sleeves. A pair of bright eyes shone out of his dark shaggy
face, like a Dandy Dinmont's. His nose was large and red. He rolled as
he walked. Such a sight had never been seen before in the Deanery
garden.

"That's my man. Peggy's valet," said Oliver airily. "His name is
Chipmunk. A beauty, isn't he?"

"Like master, like man," murmured Doggie.

Oliver's quick ears caught the words intended only for Peggy. He
smiled brightly.

"If you knew what a compliment you were paying me, Doggie, you
wouldn't have said such a thing."

The man seeing the company stare at him, halted, took his pipe out of
his mouth, and scratched his head.

"But--er--forgive me, my dear Oliver," said the Dean. "No doubt he is
an excellent fellow--but don't you think he might smoke his pipe
somewhere else?"

"Of course he might," said Oliver. "And he jolly well shall." He put
his hand to his mouth, sea-fashion--they were about thirty yards
apart--and shouted: "Here, you! What the eternal blazes are you doing
here?"

"Please don't hurt the poor man's feelings," said the kindly Dean.

Oliver turned a blank look on his Uncle. "His what? Ain't got any. Not
that kind of feelings." He proceeded: "Now then, look lively! Clear
out! Skidoo!"

The valet touched his forehead in salute, and--"Where am I to go to,
Cap'en?"

"Go to----"

Oliver checked himself in time, and turned to the Dean.

"Where shall I tell him to go?" he asked sweetly.

"The kitchen garden would be the best place," replied the Dean.

"I think I'd better go and fix him up myself," said Oliver. "A little
conversation in his own language might be beneficial."

"But isn't he English?" asked Peggy.

"Born and bred in Wapping," said Oliver.

He marched off across the lawn; and, could they have hear