“Here, young un!” he cried; “the master says I did that thar a-purpose to hurt you, out of jealous feeling like. What do you say?”
“It was an accident,” I cried, eagerly.
“Hear that, master,” cried Ike; “and that’s a fact; so here’s my hand, and here’s my heart. Why, I’d be ashamed o’ mysen to hurt a bit of a boy like you. It war an accident, lad, and that’s honest. So now what’s it to be—shake hands or leave it alone?”
“Shake hands,” I said, lifting mine with difficulty. “I don’t think you could have done such a cowardly thing.”
I looked round sharply at Mr Brownsmith, for I felt as if I had said something that would offend him, since I was taking sides against him.
“Be careful, please,” I added quickly; “my arm’s very bad, and you’ll hurt me.”
“Careful!” cried Ike; “I’ll shake it as easy as if it was a young shoot o’ sea-kale, boy. There, hear him, master! Hear what this here boy says!”
He shook hands with me, I dare say thinking he was treating me very gently, but he hurt me very much. The grip of his hard brown hand alone was bad enough, but I bore it all as well as I could, and tried to smile in the rough fellow’s face.
“That’s the sort as I like,” he said in a good-humoured growl. “Put that down on the slate. That’s being a trump, that is; and we two’s shipmates after this here.”
Old Brownsmith did not speak, and Ike went on: