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5. THE MIXER. (II. He Moves in Society)
It was one of those things which are really nobody's fault. It was not the chauffeur's fault, and it was not mine. I was having a friendly turn-up with a pal of mine on the side-walk; he ran across the road; I ran after him; and the car came round the corner and hit me. It must have been going pretty slow, or I should have been killed. As it was, I just had the breath knocked out of me. You know how you feel when the butcher catches you just as you are edging out of the shop with a bit of meat. It was like that.
I wasn't taking much interest in things for awhile, but when I did I found that I was the centre of a group of three--the chauffeur, a small boy, and the small boy's nurse.
The small boy was very well-dressed, and looked delicate. He was crying.
'Poor doggie,' he said, 'poor doggie.'
'It wasn't my fault, Master Peter,' said the chauffeur respectfully. 'He run out into the road before I seen him.'
'That's right,' I put in, for I didn't want to get the man into trouble.
'Oh, he's not dead,' said the small boy. 'He barked.'
'He growled,' said the nurse. 'Come away, Master Peter. He might bite you.'
Women are trying sometimes. It is almost as if they deliberately misunderstood.
'I won't come away. I'm going to take him home with me and send for the doctor to come and see him. He's going to be my dog.'
This sounded all right. Goodness knows I am no snob, and can rough it when required, but I do like comfort when it comes my way, and it seemed to me that this was where I got it. And I liked the boy. He was the right sort.
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