“Hullo, Hickathrift! You’re there, are you?” said the squire. “What do they want?”
“Well, you see, squire,” began the wheelwright; but his voice was drowned by another furious yell.
“Don’t all speak at once!” cried Dick, who had planted himself upon a rough block of stone that had been dug out of the ruins and placed in the front of the house.
There was something so droll to the great band of workmen in a mere stripling shouting to them in so commanding a way, that they all burst into a hearty laugh.
“Here, let Hicky speak!” cried Dick.
“Yes!—Ay!—Ah!—Let big Hickathrift speak!” was shouted out.
“Keep quiet, then,” said the wheelwright, “or how can I! You see, squire,” he continued, “the lads came along by my place, and they said some one had put it about that one of them had fired a shot at the young engyneer, and they’re all popped about it, and want to see Mr Marston and tell him it isn’t true.”
“You can’t see Mr Marston, my lads,” said the squire.
Here there was a fierce yell.
“The doctor says it would do him harm,” continued the squire, “and you don’t want to do that.”