“Hallo, my hero!” he cried, shaking hands with me.
“Please, please don’t, Mr Tomplin,” I cried. “I feel as if I’d never do such a thing again as long as I live.”
“Don’t say that, my boy,” he cried. “Say it if you like, though. You don’t mean it. I say, though, you folks have done it now.”
We had done more than we thought, for the next morning when we walked down to the office and Uncle Jack was saying that we must not be done out of our holiday, who should be waiting at the gate but Gentles.
“Ugh!” said Uncle Jack; “there’s that scoundrel. I hate that man. I wish it had been someone else’s child you had saved, Cob. Well, my man,” he cried roughly, “what is it?”
Gentles had taken off his cap, a piece of politeness very rare among his set, and he looked down on the ground for a minute or two, and then ended a painful silence by saying:
“I’ve been a reg’lar bad un to you and yours, mester; but it was the traäde as made me do it.”
“Well, that’s all over now, Gentles, and you’ve come to apologise?”
“Yes, mester, that’s it. I’m down sorry, I am, and if you’ll tek me on again I’ll sarve you like a man—ay, and I’ll feight for thee like a man agen the traäde.”
“Are you out of work?”