“I sha’n’t take any more notice of it,” I said quietly; “but I don’t want any present.”
“There, moother said he’d be over proud to tak it,” said the younger lad resentfully to his brother.
“No, I am not too proud,” I said; “give it to me. What is it?”
“Best knife they maks at our wucks,” said the boy eagerly. “It’s rare stoof. I say, we’re going to learn to swim like thou.”
They both nodded and went away, leaving me thinking that I was after this to be friends with the Arrowfield boys as well as the men.
They need not have put it in the newspaper, but there it was, a long account headed “Gallant rescue by a boy.” It was dressed up in a way that made my cheeks tingle, and a few days later the tears came into my eyes as I read a letter from my mother telling me she had read in the newspaper what I had done, and—
There, I will not set that down. It was what my mother said, and every British boy knows what his mother would say of an accident like that.
It was wonderful how the works progressed after this, and how differently the men met us. It was not only our own, but the men at all the works about us. Instead of a scowl or a stare there was a nod, and a gruff “good morning.” In fact, we seemed to have lived down the prejudice against the “chaps fro’ Lunnon, and their contrapshions;” but my uncles knew only too well that they had not mastered the invisible enemy called the trade.