“Be quiet, Billy,” said the visitor, calmly; and, putting his arm round the boy's neck, drew him to his side, and detached the handkerchief, all in a certain paternal way that seemed to betoken a kindly disposition. But, whilst he was doing this, he said to Henry, “Now—you marked a stone in daylight; which was it?”
“No, no, I didn't mark the stone, but I wrote on the wall just opposite. Lend us the light, Bayne. By George! here is my mark right opposite this stone.”
“Then Billy's right. Well done, Billy.” He put his hand in his pocket and gave him a new shilling. He then inquired of Bayne, with the air of a pupil seeking advice from a master, whether this discovery ought not to be acted upon.
“What would you suggest, sir?” asked Bayne, with equal deference.
“Oh, if I was sure I should not be considered presumptuous in offering my advice, I would say, Turn the stone into the yard, and bang a new one. You have got three excellent ones outside; from Buckhurst quarry, by the look of them.”
“It shall be done, sir.”
This effective co-operation, on the part of a stranger, was naturally gratifying to Henry, and he said to him: “I should be glad to ask you a question. You seem to know a good deal about this trade—”
A low chuckle burst out of Bayne, but he instantly suppressed it, for fear of giving offense—
“Are serious accidents really common with these grindstones?”
“No, no,” said Bayne, “not common. Heaven forbid.”