But he shook that off, and said briskly, “Now, then, what was his crime? Did he owe some mutual aid society six-and-four-pence?”
“That's right,” said Reynolds, sullenly, “throw every thing on the Union. If we knew who it was, he'd lie by the side of this one in less than a minute, and, happen, not get up again so soon.” A growl of assent confirmed the speaker's words. Cheetham interposed and drew Amboyne aside, and began to tell him who the man was and what the dispute; but Amboyne cut the latter explanation short. “What,” said he, “is this the carver whose work I saw up at Mr. Carden's?”
“This is the very man, no doubt.”
“Why, he's a sculptor: Praxiteles in wood. A fine choice they have made for their gunpowder, a workman that did honor to the town.”
A faint flush of gratified pride colored the ghastly cheek a moment.
“Doctor, shall I live to finish the bust?” said Henry, piteously.
“That and hundreds more, if you obey me. The fact is, Mr. Cheetham, this young man is not hurt, but his nerves have received a severe shock; and the sooner he is out of this place the better. Ah, there is my brougham at the gate. Come, put him into it, and I'll take him to the infirmary.”
“No,” said Little, “I won't go there; my mother would hear of it.”
“Oh, then your mother is not to know?”
“Not for all the world! She has had trouble enough. I'll just wash my face and buy a clean shirt, and she'll never know what has happened. It would kill her. Oh, yes, it would kill her!”