“And your master—does he ever give you the stirrup-leather now?” said Max, laughing.
“Give me the sterrup-leather!” said the boy, looking pugnacious; “no, he jest don’t. I should like to ketch him at it. Sterrup-leather! why, he treats me just like a son.”
“But of course you are not his son?” said Max, with a peculiar smile.
“There’s impudence!” muttered Dick, from behind a great camellia. “Nice brotherly attack on me. Why, the young ruffian’s going to say he is, just out of pride and vanity!”
“No, sir; I was a workusser.”
“A what?”
“A workusser, and was sent out to one o’ the whitewashy schools. That’s where master got me. I’ll go and see if he’s ready.”
“Wait a moment, my lad,” said Max; “there’s another shilling, for being such a good boy and stopping in your place.”
“Stop, sir!” said John, grinning, as he bit the edge of the coin and then slipped it in his pocket—“I should think I do stop: master couldn’t afford to part with me.”
“If that boy tells all he knows, I’ll about half kill him,” muttered Dick, who, playing the eavesdropper, stood a fair chance of suffering the listener’s fate.