Not content with boxing the boy’s ears, Mr Jenkins seized him by the arm, which he twisted savagely.
‘Oh, oh—Jenkins! don’t—please don’t! You do hurt!’
‘And I will too, you young pig!’
The scene was taking place in the close and dismal office of Messrs Phogg & Cheetham, Solicitors, House Agents, &c. The tiny windows, partly covered with a wire blind and partly with big bills, allowed but little daylight to penetrate into the office, Messrs Phogg & Cheetham seeming to prefer, in more senses than one, working in the dark.
While the boy’s cries still rang out, a third person, who had been seated in the darkest corner of the office, perched up on a high stool, making entries in a book of vast dimensions, quietly descended from his seat, and in two strides stood before Mr Jenkins.
This third person was a well-set-up, handsome young fellow of about sixteen, with a firm chin, clear-cut features, and honest hazel eyes.
‘Leave Mallinson alone,’ he said quietly to Mr Jenkins; ‘you’re hurting him.’
‘And a good job too. He’s spoilt my trousers!’
‘It was an accident, and he’s sorry. Now let him go.’
‘I sha’n’t, and you mind your own business, John Blair, or you’ll get kicked out into the gutter.’