“Now, look ye here, Master Fred,” cried Samson, appealingly, “what’s the good of your bullying me into saying things which will only make you cross with me, and call me a thundering idiot, or some other pretty thing like that?”
“But anything’s better than suspense, and I want to know the worst.”
“Well, then, you can’t,” said Samson, gruffly. “There aren’t no worse, because it’s all guessing.”
“Well, then, what do they guess?”
“Now, look ye here, Master Fred—is it fair to make me tell you, and put you in a passion; and you a-standing there with a sword by your side, and another in your hand?”
“Speak, sir—speak!”
“Very well, sir; here goes. And if you fly in a passion, and do anything rash to me, it will only be another triumph for my brother Nat.”
“Will you speak, sir?”
“Yes, I’m going to, sir; but one must make a beginning. Well, then, Master Fred, it’s only hearsay, and you know what hearsay is. Some one heard one of the prisoners say that he saw Sir Godfrey go down wounded, and young Master Scarlett jump across him, fighting like a madman; and then people were driven all sorts of ways, but not before there was a regular burst of fire sweeping along; and they think that Sir Godfrey and poor Master Scarlett was overtaken by the flames. Master Fred! Master Fred! don’t take on like that. It’s only what they say, you know, dear lad, and it may be all wrong.”
The rough fellow laid his hand upon his master’s arm, as Fred turned away.