“Only to think,” said his great-grandmother, “that up in London all they could gie to he was a bad penny.”
“It is the bronze medal, my lady,” said Joshua, with a blush; “the second prize for crayons in our section.”
“Indeed,” cried Rosamond. “You are a genius, Joe, worthy of your namesake. There are many that would be proud to have the grandson you have, Betty.”
“Tubby sure,” added an aunt-in-law, “’tis cheap come by. Such things to make a young lad draught. They ought to be ashamed of themselves, they did oughter. Shut it up, Josh; don’t be showing it to the lady—’tis nothing but the bare back of a sweep.”
“My lady and Miss Vivian have seen it,” said Joshua, blushing. “’Tis torso, my lady, from a cast from the museum.”
“A black-looking draught,” repeated the grandmother. “I tells Joe if he drawed like King Geaarge’s head up at Wil’sbro’ on the sign, with cheeks like apples, and a gould crown atop, he’d arn his bread.”
“All in good time, Betty. He can’t colour till he can draw. I’m glad to see him looking so well.”
“Yes, my lady, he do have his health torrablish, though he lives in a underground sort of a place; and they fine servants puts upon he shameful.”
“Granny!” muttered Joshua, in expostulation.
“He’s a brave boy, and does not mind roughing it, so he can get on,” said Rosamond.