I went into the grinding-shop one morning, where all was noise and din, the wheels spinning and the steel shrieking as it was being ground, when all at once a quantity of water such as might have been thrown from a pint pot came all over me.
I turned round sharply, but every one was at work except the stout grinder, who, with a look of disgust on his face, stood wiping his neck with a blue cotton handkerchief, and then one cheek.
“Any on it come on you, mester?” he said.
“Any come on me!” I cried indignantly—“look.”
“It be a shaäm—a reg’lar shaäm,” he said slowly; “and I’d like to know who throwed that watter. Here, let me.”
He came from his bench, or horse as the grinders call their seat, and kindly enough brushed the water away from my jacket with his handkerchief.
“Don’t tak’ no notice of it,” he said. “They’re nobbut a set o’ fullish boys as plays they tricks, and if you tell on ’em they’ll give it to you worse.”
I took his advice, and said nothing then, but naturally enough, spoke to my uncles about it when we were alone at night.
“Never mind,” said Uncle Dick. “I daresay we shall get the fellows to understand in time that we are their friends and not their enemies.”
“Yes,” said Uncle Jack; “they are better. I dare say it will all come right in time.”