“Oh dear me—dear me, Alison Dale,” said Mr Preddle, rising up from his stooping position very slowly and wiping his broad fat face, which was covered with drops of perspiration, “this is a very sad business, isn’t it?”
“Horrible!” I said, “but it will all come right.” He laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“Come into my cabin,” he whispered; and I followed him.
“You think it will come right?” he said, looking at me in a terribly perplexed way.
“Oh yes, I think so,” I said; “Mr Denning and Mr Frewen will give the rascals a good peppering and bring them to their senses.”
“And so will I!” he cried excitedly. “I never tried to fight seriously since I left school, but I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to if I tried,—do you?”
“Of course not sir,” I replied, smiling. I wanted to laugh outright, for he did not at all come up to my ideas of a fighting man.
“I can see,” he went on mildly, “you don’t think I could, but I shall try.”
“I won’t laugh at you, Mr Preddle,” I said; “indeed you have more cause to laugh at me when I say that, boy as I am, I mean to fight and try to defend Miss Denning.”
He caught hold of my hand, held it in his left, and brought his big soft right down into it with a sounding slap, and then squeezed my fingers as hard as he could.