“What do you mean?” he asked.
“What do I mean? You know.”
“I know?”
“Yes; you were going to say that father was dreadfully cross all the time. Come, confess.”
“Well,” said Dean hesitating, “I am afraid I did think something of the kind.”
“Afraid! Why, you did, you beggar, and then packed it all on to my shoulders. Hullo, here comes Mann—man—handy man—Daniel Mann—Dan Mann. What a rum name! Hasn’t been very handy yet, though.”
“I say, don’t! You will have him hear what you say.”
“I don’t care. Let him! I wasn’t saying any harm about him, poor chap. He’s coming to us—wants to say something, I suppose.”
The conversation was taking place just outside the so-called hotel, though the boys had dubbed it the tin tabernacle—a rough, hastily-built house that had been fitted up by an enterprising trader, where the party found temporary accommodation.
“Well, Daniel? Feel better?”