“But it’s so far away, and there may be risks.”
“Risks? Do you think it’s going to be half so risky as staying here? Because if you do, I don’t.”
“There is something in that,” said his brother.
“Of course there is; and we can’t slave Blunt to death. I meant to have stayed with him a couple of months to lighten his work; but, as we have said, it is quite impossible. Stan would be the very fellow.”
The lad’s father tapped the table with the tips of his fingers and frowned.
“Very well,” he said suddenly. “He proved that he could play the man last night.—Here, Stan.”
“Yes, father.”
“Your uncle and I want you to go south to the Mour River—to our branch collecting-house there, under the charge of our Mr Blunt.”
“Very well, father,” said the lad, the news coming like a shock after the events of the past night.
“You’ll find Blunt rather rough—such a man as ought to be named Blunt—but a good fellow at bottom,” said Uncle Jeff.