“No, thank you,” said Uncle Bob. “I’ll trouble you for the soap when you’ve done.”
“And now,” I cried, speaking to them as I had never done before, “you make worse of it by laughing at me.”
“No, no,” cried Uncle Dick; “we were not laughing at you, but we do now;” and starting with a tremendous “Ha-ha-ha!” the others joined in, and I stalked out of the parlour and went up to my room, where I set to work, and in about ten minutes had all my belongings carefully packed in my little carpet-bag—the new one that had been bought for me—and the little brass padlock on and locked.
Just then the parlour door opened as I was looking out of my bed-room window at the smoke and glow over the town, and thinking that after all I liked the noise and dirt and busy toil always going on, knowing, as I did, how much it had to do with the greatness of our land.
“Cob!” came up Uncle Dick’s big voice.
“Yes, uncle,” I said quietly.
“Tea’s ready.”
“I don’t want any tea,” I said.
“Yes, you do, lad. Fried ham and eggs.”
“Come,” I said to myself, “I’ll let them see that I can behave like a man. Perhaps I shall have to go home by the last train to-night or the first in the morning. Poor old Piter,” I thought, “I should like to have taken you!”