“Nay, not it, lad. Come on.”
“Wait a bit,” said Ram.—“I say, didn’t tell me whether you’d like a bottle o’ milk?”
Archy felt as if he would like to fly at the boy, the very mention of the milk exasperating him to such an extent. But at every movement he felt himself more tightly held, and knowing from sad experience that it was waste of energy to contend with the iron-muscled fellow who gripped his arm, he smothered his anger.
He did not speak, but as Ram held up the light, Archy’s countenance told tales of the passion struggling in his breast for exit, and the boy grinned.
“I say, do have a bottle o’ milk,” he said; “it’s fresh and warm. Mother said it would do you good.”
“Nay, lad, don’t give him none till he’s grow’d civil, and don’t talk about hanging on us.”
“I brought you a bottle o’ new milk and some hot bread, on’y it’s getting cold now, and some butter and cold ham. Do have some.”
Archy ground his teeth: he felt as if he would give anything for some food, and the very mention of the tasty viands made his mouth water, but he only stamped his foot and tried to shake himself free.
“I am a king’s officer,” he shouted, “and order you to let me go!”
“Hear that, Jemmy? Hold him tight.”