CHAPTER VIII.
Mr Lockstable’s Courtship.
Mr Bristley did not talk about his sister’s dream, but it haunted him, and obscure hints which he let fall involuntarily betrayed the current of his thoughts.
‘What shall we name the pup, now we have got him, Uncle Spines?’ asked his niece one morning in the garden.
‘What do you say to a Scriptural name?’ he asked, in reply. ‘How would it be to call him Maher-shalal-hash-baz?’
‘A nice name to call up and down stairs!’ said Lesbia, laughing. ‘Mayors-shall’olloa-hodge-podge—that’s what people would turn it into. But what does it mean?’
‘Spoil is nigh, pillage hasteneth.’
‘No, no. I won't have my cub christened by such an ominous name, uncle. I’ve just thought of a good name for a white bulldog—Gossamer. It shortens well too. Goss! Goss!’
‘Yes, that’s a very good name, and, as you say, just suitable to a bull. Talking of dogs reminds me of another dependant of man, the horse. I want to see you start in the reformation of horseback for women, Lesbie. Having begun with the bicycle, this will come easy to you, and will be more easy for others to copy you in. It is not quite so novel, and has no element of danger.’
