“It seems very risky,” said Stan thoughtfully; “and of course you and the clerks dread a rising against you.”
“Against us, you ought to say now, my lad,” said Blunt, smiling. “But we are not a bit afraid, and when you have been here a few months you won’t be either.”
Stan flushed a little, and said hurriedly:
“Of course, it is excusable for me to feel a bit nervous at first. You see, I had such a nasty experience the other night.”
“To be sure,” said Blunt. “And mind, I don’t say but what we live in a constant state of alarm about an attack like that, but not of our own people. They wouldn’t go against us.”
“Why?” said Stan.
“Because the round, smooth-faced beggars like me.”
The thought of what he had heard from Wing, and learnt from his own observation of the manager, had such a perplexing effect upon the lad that his countenance assumed an aspect of so ludicrous a nature that Blunt burst into a roar of laughter.
“I see,” he cried; “you can’t digest that. It doesn’t fit with my roaring and shouting at them just now? Well, it doesn’t seem to, but it does. You’ll see. You’ll soon find out that the men all like me very much, and I believe that if we were in great trouble they’d fight to the death for me—to a man. Like to know why?”
“Of course,” said Stan.