So John Warren went to the Toft, obtained the clean linen rag, but refused to have his wound dressed, and went off again; while the squire knit his brow when he returned soon after, and, taking Dick with him, poled across in the punt to see Dave and make him promise to keep a sharp look-out.
A week passed away, and the frost had come in so keenly that the ice promised to bear, and consequent upon this Dick was at the wheelwright’s one evening superintending the finishing up of his pattens, as they called their skates. Hickathrift had ground the blades until they were perfectly sharp at the edges, and had made a new pair of ashen soles for them, into which he had just finished fitting the steel.
“There, Mester Dick,” said the bluff fellow with a grin; “that’s a pair o’ pattens as you ought ’most to fly in. Going out in the morning?”
“Yes, Hicky, I shall go directly after breakfast.”
“Ay, she’ll bear splendid to-morrow, and the ice is as hard and black as it can be. Hello, who’s this? Haw-haw! I thowt you’d want yours done,” he added, as he heard steps coming over the frozen ground, and the jingle of skates knocking together. “It’s young Tom Tallington, Mester Dick. Come, you two ought to mak friends now, and go and hev a good skate to-morrow.”
“I’m never going to be friends with Tom Tallington again,” said Dick sternly; but he sighed as he said it.
Just then Tom rushed into the workshop. “Here,” he cried, “Dick Winthorpe, come along. I’ve been to the house.”
“What do you want?” said Dick coldly.
“What do I want! Why, they don’t know!” cried Tom. “Look here!”
He caught Dick by the collar, dragged him to the door, and pointed.