Chapter Four.
Down by the Penstock.
It seemed a long time before we heard anything, but at last there were steps and voices which soon became plain, and, to my surprise, I found that they were talking about me.
“Oh, he can’t fight, Dicksy,” said one voice, which I recognised as the tall boy’s—my namesake. “Those London chaps are all talk and no do. I shall give him a licking first chance, just to tame him down, and then you’d better have a go at him.”
“You think he can’t fight, then?”
“Tchah! not he. You can lick him with one hand.”
“Then I will,” said Dicksee. “I wonder where he went.”
“Off with that old Senna T-pot,” said Burr major scornfully. “He’s taken him with him to pick snails and frogs—an idiot! I hate that chap, Dicksy, he’s a beast.”
“Yes, that he is.”
“You can’t shake hands with him, because you never know what he’s touched last. I think the Doctor ought to be more particular about the sort of boys he—mumble—hum—hum hum hum!”