Tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. He had to cross the mill-yard. Mr. Tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale Sam was pouring into his ear. Tom saw his master’s brow contract.
“Send him to me,” Tom heard, “I’ll deal with him. It’s rank mutiny.”
Tom stepped forward and stood by the horse’s side.
“I’m here, sir,” he said quickly, tho’ he could hear the beating of his own heart.
The riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. Tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. But the blow fell not.
“Where do you say you come from?”
“Diggle, sir,” and Tom’s quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. “You hired me yourself at the Workhouse.”
Jabez Tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad’s pale set face and scanned it searchingly.
“How came that weal across your cheek?”
“Sam can tell you best,” was the quiet reply.