The process of expulsion was always conducted with the greatest
courtesy on either side; for his bolt had become an agreeable variety
in the monotonous lives of the guardians; they never knew when or in
what fashion it would come next.
Now he had another occupation, the shadowing of Mr. Arthur Courtnay.
That florid Adonis never grew used to hearing a gentle voice singing
softly:
"Get your hair cut! Get your hair cut!"
or,
"Oh, Tatcho! Oh, Tatcho!
Rejoice, ye bald and weary men!
You'll soon be regular hairy men!
Sing! Rejoice! Let your voices go!
Sprinkle some on your cranium!
What, ho! Tatcho!"
The poetry was vulgar; but long ago his insight into the heart of man
had taught Tinker to attack the vulgar with the only weapon effective
against them, vulgarity.
Sooner or later, whether he was walking, or sitting with Claire, those
vulgar strains would be wafted to Mr. Arthur Courtnay's ears, and they
injured his cause. They kept alive in the girl's mind an uneasy doubt
whether her father was right in asserting Arthur Courtnay to be one of
the nicest fellows he had ever met, a veritable gentleman of the old
school, an opinion founded on the fact that Courtnay was the only man
who had ever given two hours' close attention to his views on
Protection.
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