CHAPTER XIV
July 18th.
The day was Friday; Phoebe's day to go to Buffington with eggs and
chickens and rabbits; her day to solicit orders for ducklings and
goslings. The village cart was ready in the stable; Mr. and Mrs. Heaven
were in Woodmucket; I was eating my breakfast (which I remember was an
egg and a rasher) when Phoebe came in, a figure of woe.
The Square Baby was ill, very ill, and would not permit her to leave him
and go to market. Would I look at him? For he must have dowsed 'imself
as well as the goslings yesterday; anyways he was strong of paraffin and
tobacco, though he 'ad 'ad a good barth.
I prescribed for Albert Edward, who was as uncomfortable and feverish as
any little sinner in the county of Sussex, and I then promptly proposed
going to Buffington in Phoebe's place.
She did not think it at all proper, and said that, notwithstanding my
cotton gown and sailor hat, I looked quite, quite the lydy, and it would
never do.
"I cannot get any new orders," said I, "but I can certainly leave the
rabbits and eggs at the customary places. I know Argent's Dining
Parlours, and Songhurst's Tea Rooms, and the Six Bells Inn, as well as
you do."
So, donning a pair of Phoebe's large white cotton gloves with open-work
wrists (than which I always fancy there is no one article that so
disguises the perfect lydy), I set out upon my travels, upborne by a
lively sense of amusement that was at least equal to my feeling that I
was doing Phoebe Heaven a good turn.
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