“We’re mates, that’s what we two are,” he growled. “You ar’n’t half a bad un, you ar’n’t. Ah, mester, how are you? Arm better?”
“Mending fast, my lad; and how are you?”
“Tidy, mester, tidy! Going to handle a spade again to-morrow.”
“Nonsense, man! you’re too weak yet.”
“Weak! Who says so? I don’t, and the doctor had better not.”
“Never mind that. I want you to tell me how all this happened.”
“He ar’n’t half a bad un, mester,” said the injured man, ignoring the remark, as he held on to the boy’s hand. “We’re mates, that’s what we are. See him stand up again me that day? It were fine.”
“Yes; but you must tell me how this occurred. I want to take some steps about it.”
“Hey! and you needn’t take no steps again it, mester. I shall lay hold on him some day, and when I do—Hah!”
He stretched out a huge fist in a menacing way that promised ill to his assailant.