“As for you, Uggleston,” cried the doctor, “I sha’n’t offer you a present, for you’ll want me some day to mend your head, or cut off a leg or a wing. Only, recollect I’m in your debt.”
“As for me, Mr Uggleston,” said my father.
“There—there, that will do,” cried old Jonas surlily. “We ar’n’t such very bad friends, are we?”
“I hope not,” said my father, and we took our leave, being embraced by the French skipper, who said that we should meet again, shaking hands with old Jonas, and giving Binnacle Bill a crown piece, which my father slipped into my hand for him, making the old red-faced fellow’s eyes twinkle as he exclaimed:
“Ba–c–co!”
Then we started homeward in the lowest of spirits, we two boys expecting the most severe of lectures; but to our intense surprise and delight we were allowed to drop behind, for our elders were deep in conversation about the mine.
Then it was that, after hanging more and more behind, Bob Chowne relieved his feelings.
“It was a shame—it was too bad!” he kept on grumbling.
“What was too bad—what was a shame?” I cried.
“Why, for father to give old Parley Vous that knife!”