Confronted thus by Di's father, the speech which Bobby had planned
deserted him.
"I thought if you would give me a job," he said defencelessly.
"So that's it!" Mr. Deacon, who always awaited but a touch to be either
irritable or facetious, inclined now to be facetious. "Filling teeth?"
he would know. "Marrying folks, then?" Assistant justice or assistant
dentist--which?
Bobby blushed. No, no, but in that big building of Mr. Deacon's where
his office was, wasn't there something ... It faded from him, sounded
ridiculous. Of course there was nothing. He saw it now.
There was nothing. Mr. Deacon confirmed him. But Mr. Deacon had an idea.
Hold on, he said--hold on. The grass. Would Bobby consider taking charge
of the grass? Though Mr. Deacon was of the type which cuts its own
grass and glories in its vigour and its energy, yet in the time after
that which he called "dental hours" Mr. Deacon wished to work in his
garden. His grass, growing in late April rains, would need attention
early next month .
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