“I digged that bit along that wall only yesterday,” said Ike.
“Be silent, sir,” cried Sir Francis; “stop. Come forward; set a candle down on the floor, Brownsmith.”
It was done.
“You, Isaac, hold up one of your feet—there, by the candle. No, no, man; I want to see the sole.”
Ike held up a foot as if he were a horse about to be shod, and growled out:
“Fifteen and six, master, and warranted water-tights.”
“That will do, my man,” said Sir Francis, frowning severely as if to hide a smile; and Ike put down his great boot and went softly back to his place.
“Now you, Grant,” said Sir Francis.
I walked boldly to the candle and held up my heavily-nailed garden boots, so that Sir Francis could see the soles.
“That will do, my lad,” he said. “Now you, Courtenay, and you, Philip.”