“Yes, yes, of course, Samson; but come down to the stream, and bathe your face. Your horse is grazing now.”
“You’re getting too vain and partic’lar, Master Fred,” grumbled Samson. “You’re thinking of looking nice, like the R’y’lists, when you ought to be proud of a little blood shed in the good cause.”
“I am proud and ready too, Samson; but come and wash your face.”
“I’ll come,” grumbled Samson; “and I never kears about washing myself now. Never a drop o’ hot water, no towels, no soap, and no well, and no buckets. Once a week seems quite enough, specially as you has to wait till you get dry.”
By a little persuasion, Samson was led to the stream, where he knelt down and bathed his face, looking up to his master from time to time to ask if that was better, the final result being that, beyond a little swelling on one side, Samson’s nose was none the worse for the encounter.
“There!” he cried at last; “I suppose that will do, sir.”
“Yes, my lad, and I’m very, very glad you have escaped so well.”
“Oh, I’ve ’scaped well enough, Master Fred; deal better than I deserved. We’re a wicked, bad, good-for-nothing family. Look at our Nat, fighting against his own brother.”
“It is very sad, Samson,” said Fred; “but, remember, you are fighting against him.”
“That I arn’t, sir. It’s him fighting against me, and I only wish I may run against him some day. I’d make him so sore that he’ll lie down and howl for his mother, poor soul, and she breaking her heart about him turning out so badly; and, I say, Master Fred, if I don’t have something to eat, I shall be only fit to bury to-morrow.”