That was my fate then; and regardless of my resistance one motherly body after another seized me, kissing my cheeks roundly, straining me to her bosom, and calling me her “brave lad!” or her “bonny bairn!” or “my mahn!”
I had to be kissed and hand-shaken till I would gladly have escaped for very shame; and at last Uncle Jack rescued me, coming to my side smiling and looking round.
“If he’s thy bairn, mester,” cried the virago-like woman who had helped Mrs Gentles, “thou ought to be proud of him.”
“And so I am,” cried Uncle Jack, laying his hand upon my shoulder.
Here there was a loud “hurrah!” set up by the men, and the women joined in shrilly, while a couple of men with big mugs elbowed their way towards us.
“Here, lay holt, mester,” said one to Uncle Jack; “drink that—it’ll keep out the cold.”
At the same moment a mug was forced into my hand, and in response to a nod from Uncle Jack I took a hearty draught of some strong mixture which I believe was gin and beer.
“How is the child?” said Uncle Jack.
“Doctor says he can’t tell yet, but hopes he’ll pull bairn through.”
“Now, my lads,” said Uncle Jack, “you don’t want us to catch cold?”