“Well, so it is, mother, when it’s a big, strong fellow ill-using a small one. But it can’t be brutal for a little one to stick up for himself and thrash the big coward, can it?”
“That is a question upon which I cannot pretend to decide, Vince. You had better ask your father.”
“Oh, no! I shan’t say anything about it,” replied the boy, giving his short shock-brown hair a rub. “I don’t like talking about it. Nearly done?”
“Yes, I am fastening off the thread.”
There was a snip given directly after by a pair of scissors; Vince gave his leg a shake to send the trouser down in its place, and then stooped and kissed the sweet, placid face so close to his.
“There,” he cried; “don’t you tell me I didn’t pay you for mending the tear.”
“Ready, Vince?” said the Doctor, entering with the bottle neatly done up in white paper.
“Yes, father.”
“Mind, sir! don’t break it.”
“No, father: all right.”