It was one day, when I was working in the garden under Nichols. I had been watering some beds, and I saw Mr. Bertram coming along the path with an old gentleman. Not that he was old, really, only he had grey hair, and a great many wrinkles; and even middle-aged people seem old to a boy of fifteen. They came close to where I was, and Mr. Bertram said, "This is the boy, Mr. Laurence."
Mr. Laurence repeated the words,—"This is the boy!"—slowly. Then he said again, "This is the boy that saved your life."
I always do say too much was made of that. I hadn't a moment to think, one way or the other, and to pull somebody else out of danger was the natural thing for anybody who wasn't a downright coward. I don't think I ever was a coward. But in my eyes it wasn't so brave a deed as if I'd had time to consider, and to know that I was putting my own life in danger. Not that I suppose I didn't know after a fashion, one thinks so quickly; but still, as I say, it was the natural thing to do for any lad of courage.
However, I suppose it's natural too that Mr. Bertram's friends should think more of it than I did, and I know they've never forgotten that moment. As for paying back, it's been paid back in kindness a hundred times to me and mine.
Well, when Mr. Laurence spoke so, Mr. Bertram said, "Didn't you, Miles?"
"It was a biggish piece of rock, sir," said I, for I didn't know what else to say.
"Thundering big," said he, in his quick way.
I don't know what there always was about Mr. Bertram that made everybody love him, but I know everybody did. When he was near, I couldn't keep my eyes off him.
Then Mr. Laurence came close, and he fixed on me a pair of bright eyes from underneath such shaggy eyebrows, and he said, "Why didn't you run away and save yourself, my boy? You might have been killed, trying to help my godson."
I'm not sure that I didn't laugh,—it seemed such a question to ask,— and I made an uncommonly stupid answer. "Mother wouldn't have liked it," I said.