“Oh, no, sir,” said the man earnestly, “I don’t expect no pay.”
“Never mind what you expect. My father, I say, will tell you to be off and shift for yourself and get back to that moist oven of a port the best way you can. Won’t he, Dean?”
Dean caught his cousin’s eye, and said decisively, “Yes, of course. That’s just like uncle;” and by means of an effort he kept his face straight, looking, as Mark afterwards told him, like a badly carved piece of solid mahogany.
“Yes, sir,” said the man sadly; “and I daresay I shall be able to steer my way right enough, and for all his kindness I shall be very thankful, and—”
“Yah!” shouted Mark. “Didn’t I tell you that if ever you spoke again like that I’d—I’d—”
“I beg your pardon, sir.”
“This chap’s very weak still in his head, Dean, or else he would not dare to think that an English gentleman would behave like a cad. There, man Dan—no, I mean Dan Mann—just make up your mind that you are in for this trip with all its troubles and hard work.”
“Do you mean it, sir?” cried the man, and he looked from one to the other.
“Mean it? Why, of course we do. So never say anything about it again. Ah, here come father and the doctor. Would you like to ask them if what we say is true?”
“Not now, sir,” said the man. “I am a bit weak still, more shaky than I thought.”