“Don’t say any more about it, please,” cried Singh piteously.
“Lock it up then, quite at the bottom of your box, and never do such a thing again. It would serve you jolly well right if you lost it.”
“Oh, I say!” cried Singh.
“And promise me that if that man asks you to let him have it again you will come and tell me and go with me to the Doctor. I am sure he wouldn’t like this gentleman—I suppose he is a gentleman—”
“Oh yes,” said Singh thoughtfully; “he’s a professional gentleman.”
“Well, whatever he is,” said Glyn, “I am sure the Doctor wouldn’t like it.”
“Look here,” cried Singh eagerly, “I’ll promise you, if you like, for I am getting to hate the old thing. I am tired of it, and I shall be ashamed to wear it now after all you have said, and feel as if I were dressed up for a show. You take it now, and lock it up in your drawers. You’d take more care of it than I could; add then you wouldn’t bully me any more.”
The boy made for his bullock-trunk; but Glyn caught him by the arm and stopped him.
“That’ll do,” he said.
“What do you mean?” cried Singh. “You will take care of it for me?”