“In his room drawing plans,” I cried. “What’s the matter? Is Uncle Bob hurt?”
“No, not a bit!”
“Then Piter is?”
“No, no, no. Here, Dick!” he shouted up the stairs. There was a sound on the upper floor as if some one had just woke an elephant, and Uncle Dick came lumbering down.
“What’s wrong?” he cried.
Uncle Jack glanced round and saw that Mrs Stephenson was looking up from where she knelt in the front room, with her eyes and mouth wide open as the door, and Martha was slowly rubbing her nose with the black-lead brush and waiting for him to speak.
“Put on your hat and come down to the works,” he said.
We moved by one impulse into the passage, and as we reached the door Mrs Stephenson cried:
“Brackfass won’t be long;” and then the sound of black-leading went on.
“Now, then,” said Uncle Dick as we reached the street, “what is it? Anything very wrong?”