“Saw your son, did you?” said Warton. “How’s he getting on?”
“Oh, he’s getting on right enough,” said the old man, proudly. “He’s getting on.”
“Gotten to be a big loyer, eh?” said Smithson. “Why, Master Ross, sir, we shall hev to get him down here to take up our cases at County Court.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” said old Ross, chuckling. “Not yet—not yet. Theres a deal to learn to get to be a big loyer; but my sons working away hard now he’s getting a bit over his trouble.”
“Trouble?” said Fullerton, bringing his eyes down from the ceiling. “He hasn’t got into trouble, I hope?”
“Nay, nay, only about the bit o’ trouble down here.”
“Not going to hev him before the magistrates, are they, Master Ross?” said Warton.
“Magistrates? What, my son?” said the old man, firing up. “Not they. He’d a deal better right to have some one else before them. My son never did no wrong.”
“But they say he knocked young Cyril about with a hedge-stake,” said Smithson.
“Tchah! Lies?” said the old man, angrily. “I dare say he hit him. So would I if I’d been a young man, and come back and found my young lady stole away like that. Yes, I’d ha’ done the same.”